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you'll find her writing poems on cemetery flowers, and reading them to ghosts who aren't ready for goodbye
©rainecooper
In the Church, I met a woman so old
Bending under the weight of years
I wonder what made her steal my attention
Was it her struggle to hold back her tears?

In spite of her frail stooping figure
She seemed to have an indomitable will
Defeating all infirmities of age, she stood
With a face though sad, yet tranquil and still

Strange enough, she recalled to me
The determined, but decrepit old man beside the pool
Whom Wordsworth had once encountered
Gathering leeches so scarce, but resolute and cool

I watched the woman humbly prostrate
And feebly rise and straighten her aged form
Surrendering herself at the feet of God
Imploring grace for life’s little tasks to perform

In her gnarled hands, she firmly held a prayer book
With the other supporting her frail figure on a staff
And with a sigh of relief, she left the church
As if her afflictions were reduced to half

As the Congregation dispersed in all directions
She feebly walked to her accustomed haunt
At the rear side of the church was a Cemetery unkempt
Where the ancestors slept, devoid of earthly cares and want

Among all the tombstones in marble and granite
Erected in memory of the kindred dead
There was a newly dug up grave
That stood aloof as a heap of mud

I watched the old woman approach this spot
Where she knelt down with a calm demeanor
Her withered hands clasped together in piety
And her eyes closed in silent prayer

With a convulsive motion of her lips
She rose up and once more knelt down
As if searching for a face so dear
Whose memory she could never ever drown

Within that mound, slept her only son
Who died in his prime, a month before
Leaving his widowed mother behind
To brave the shafts stinging, so sore

As Time by seconds and minutes ticked away
The bereaved mother stood up at last
And heavily yet quietly walked away
Leaving the one who was once her own part

                               *                          *

While the wounds of the young are quickly closed and healed
And their ductile affections entwine around new passions
The aged withdraw to the silence and desolation of life
Once when deprived of the love that life no more sanctions!
The pain of a widowed mother left lonely by the death of her only child is  something beyond one can possibly imagine !
Awry seems to be

The way things go

Light comes to be

When thought it was not of

But this is not

Where we close

A milestone it is

In a journey long

Haunted we will be

In the times to come

Of failure and of loss

But hope will carry us on

Still a doubt lingers

What is all this for?

What would be gained?

What would be lost?

If we give up now

Maybe it's just a chase to the horizon 

A goal always within sight

But Never to be achieved
Love has stole  heart away
Treasured for a million years
How I wished for long she stay
Far  from her many fears

Heart is broken once again
What can fix her shattered soul
Mend her now and not for gain
Let her now be safe and whole
Playing with simple words,July 20th
When her grandeur legally mine
well she's not as Lakshmi:

     her dream ardently admire
     her white sands tenable with feng shui.

And she sing so locutionary
though orient exclaim larger than life
but she move ahead as her queen:

     she's in a slightly slinky silk dress
     she's more than her picture tonight

     it's fantasy in her life
     it's all about romance too
     it's practical again & again
     it's polite oft let bequeath
     it's crucible demand Eros

then belie someone in her quest
with ideas that suggest outcome made:

     her civilization grow
     her factory of preparedness wrought
     her plan of platitude forthright!
An international oriental trader
 Jul 2016 Siren Coast
Stephan


I was walking through
a beautiful forest
yesterday afternoon taking in
all of the wondrous colors
that nature has to offer.
Vibrant green leaves
were lush on the trees,
a bright blue summer sky
slipped through the
breeze flowing branches,
a multitude of brown tones
on the many varieties
of shrubs and plants
created a mosaic of patterns
beneath the majestic canopy above,
when I saw it, in a clearing,
drinking from a crystal clear
slow rippling brook,
it was an old deer,
a white tail I think
and then it dawned on me . . .
old deer rhymes with cold beer!
Coincidence?
I think not.
Ok, I know this is completely stupid but it was stuck in my head and I had to get it out somehow. So, here it is . . . I'm going to go have a beer.  : )

Oh, the title originally was "Poetic thirst" but I changed it hoping more people would read it.  ;)
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