Love begins with a gaze, and it ends... when, no longer,
can you meet each others eyes; holding that gaze.
That long, silent look into each others eyes...
that melts your composure, as it softly plays
with you,
as it burrows into your soft centre
and, neither of you feel you must look away;
This, then... The Look of Love; this, then... the first step,
onto the path of this sweet game we play.

How long is a Kiss? This is no foolish question;
no cunning, couched rhyme to intrigue, or deceive.
So sadly neglected... this sweetest confection;
this first lovers' contact... and, you should believe
that, when you are new at this sweet game of kissing,
this is vital knowledge that you need to know;
more so, than the pressure; the angle of head...
and where the hell then, is your nose meant to go?

The answer to this sweetest vexing of questions...
a kiss may last days, perhaps weeks, even years.
A Kiss is so Pure an Act of Intimacy...
no covert agenda; bereft, of all fears.
So complete; as a symbol of mutual possession and sweet exploration...
its impact, its risk...
almost shocking...
for you know if this is the real thing,
the moment your lips touch in that first, sweet kiss.

What gives it this power?
Could it be, that it is the first act of possession, to gently invade
our bodies?
Perhaps, the first probe of a tongue tip between opening lips...
first hot passion, displayed?
The first true commitment of one, to the other...
so far, far away from that first, lingering glance;
The first Overt risk-taking, far beyond touching
and hand-holding... these things, perhaps, were just chance.

A kiss may last but a few moments... it may last a lifetime; for, in those fleet seconds, you know,
as your lips touch for the first time, if this is the spark to ignite the first blossoming glow
of a flame to consume you, forsaking all others; a flame, that will burn evermore, in your heart.
Or, if it's no more, than a flirting distraction;
sweet, for the moment...
but soon to depart

As I sit in contemplation of the words that I will write
upon this empty sheet of paper; which path shall I choose tonight?
Shall I spin some idyll of a bold adventure lost in time?
Shall I weave a soft, and sad lament for some lost love of mine?
Or shall I draw out from my heart, some secret thought held deep inside?
A wistful smile? Or gentle tears? It is not easy to decide.

Perhaps, I've wandered, softly tugging heart-strings, just too much, this week;
maybe I should change direction for a while... but what to seek?
Idly doodling on the page; brain in neutral... not a clue;
I guess it's got to be romantic... that's the thing that I best do.
They say, I am a True Romantic; whatever that may mean... or be,
but, I am just one more Romancer; that's a closer name for me.

True Romantics are the gentle dreamers with a special gift
of vision; Literary Unicorns whose words will help the soul uplift.
True Romantics live within a special world, all spun with gold.
For romance and beauty in all things, their wondering eyes behold.
Not here a bitter tear will fall; no cruelly broken hearts be seen;
I wish I could be one of them, but... I have seen sweet love turn mean.

And, that is why I call myself Romancer... it's a different thing;
I am in love with the idea of love... but know what love can bring
when it is lost; or, worse... misused; a kiss becomes a deadly blow.
Secure, within their glittering towers; things... True Romantics cannot know.
Or, need to know; for, should their perfect world find crass reality,
then, we all lose a special something... gone, for all eternity.

I wish that I could live in their bright, Golden world, where love is true;
But, then mine too, is Golden... but, the edges sometimes fade to blue.
which holds it all in balance; it's so sad, but, there must come a time
when overwritten, soft, romantic dreaming turns to tedious rhyme.
And then, the magic is all lost; for dreaming needs a sweeter fate;
where we would be without those dreams... I do not want to contemplate.

And, still... I sit in contemplation of the words that I will write...
the page is still defaced with doodles... it's not flowing well tonight;
That doesn't rhyme. It doesn't read well. That line's *******... it won't do.
That meaning's wrong... it doesn't hang together; think of something new.
Mangled couplets, vacuous thoughts... I really think it's time to leave
this junk... perhaps, tomorrow night, a decent poem I can weave.

The velvet night is soft and quiet... a pale moon smiles from down on high;
the wind is breathing through the trees... a gently rustling lullaby.
And you are oh, so far away... in spite of this, I could not see
that you were out of reach, my Love,
and we were never meant to be.

So, let me go to sleep; for when I sleep, I always dream of you;
no doubts... no fears to haunt me in the morning when the dreams undo;
I dream that you are here with me beneath these star-besprinkled skies;
I know it is a dream, but I don't care...
just let me close my eyes.

So I might go to sleep... and there, I'll see the face I long to touch...
to kiss; to drown deep in those eyes; those eyes that whisper... say so much
without the need to speak a single word... but only dreams bring this;
your Love is just a dream away;
and just a dream away...
your kiss.

The velvet night is soft and quiet... a pale moon smiles from down on high;
the wind is breathing through the trees... a gently rustling lullaby.
The pale moon drifts on through the night, smiling down so peacefully...
and when it smiles down on you when you dream...
perhaps, you'll dream of me.

Sitting here, I muse and ponder; seeking truths... what will I find
as I wander through the echoes of the windmills of my mind?
My thoughts of you go round and round... ever circling; ever there...
It seems that you have found a weakness... this love thing just isn't fair.
For, what was once, just sweet flirtation... double meanings... small asides,
has turned unnoticed, into something else... however much it hides
behind an act quite unconvincing, that my mind attempts to tell
to my heart; a foolish ploy... because my heart knows me too well.

And, much as I would like to think l have some measure of control
of this enchanting situation; sadly, just myself... I fool;
half-heartedly believing I am not in love; it's too absurd...
my heart; soft, sweet, and treacherous, whispers "Wrong again! .... now, heed the words
you hear me speak... don't listen to your mind, it's really out of touch;
so choked with sensibility and logic; fool! you really think too much.
Heed me. I'm the only one you really should be listening to...
for, l'm the one who ends up broken... if, at length, it all falls through."

So, who do I believe? The angel, or the devil?... I'm not sure;
both whispering soft, into my ear; the windmills turn, and turn once more...
round and round; the circling thoughts now pull me deeper, deeper down
into this web of doubt; if my hopes fail, then I shall surely drown.
But then, the windmills turn again... the answer was there, from the start...
the truth of it comes shining through...
the mind is banished... for the heart.

I thought, today; perhaps, to write of Love... but, where should I commence?
Avoiding platitudes and clichés... hackneyed phrases, glib pretence.
Separating Love from Lust; close intertwined, but not the same...
the one, a sweet, embracing glow; the other... hot, consuming flame.
Each with their time and place; but, then... each one, so easy to confuse
with the other; is this love?... or sweet distraction, to amuse
each other, for an hour or so?... soft whisperings that so entreat?
Declarations of true love... or just seduction, smooth and sweet?

Far better men than I, have tried... the poets and philosophers;
the songwriters and sages, stretching back across the drifting years...
to capture the true essence of what love is really all about;
this sweetest of contagions... such a heady mix of joy and doubt.
But, I suppose that I would say that love is patient... love is kind.
It bears all things, believes all things; and nothing, but the best will find.
Love hopes all things, endures all things, and endlessly forgives pretence;
Is born of faith, exists on hope... dies only from indifference.

Love is tolerant... non-judgemental; Love will never try to find
faults and foibles others notice... it's quite true that Love is blind.
Love takes you, for what you are... not what it might want you to be;
Love will never question... Love is unaware of jealousy.
Love is when you care for someone more, than for yourself,
you care;
Love will always find a way... Love is always somewhere, there;
waiting to ensnare your heart, just when you least expect it to...
and, when it chooses you, my friend... then, there is nothing you can do.

Except, to fall beneath the spell Love weaves all softly round the heart;
except to listen to the siren song, as common sense departs.
For those who would be sensible about Love... hardly ever find
Love, as it is meant to be... this sweet confusion of the mind.
For Love is the safe haven of the deepest feelings, deepest fears;
held safe within your lover's hands... thus shared, all shadows disappear.
If you cannot be with the one you truly love... then please be kind;
Just love the one that you are with... you never know what you might find.


If you have Love, you really don't need anything else;
but, if you don't have Love... it doesn't really matter what else you do have.

The sun smiled soft and warm on Franklin County, that late, summer day;
whistling Yankee songs, the Troop marched south, past old Winchester Town.
Relaxed, yet keeping careful watch for un-horsed Rebel Cavalry
in lurk amongst the Golden Rod that cloaked The Yellow and the Grey;
Spencers cocked, their eyes alert... the pickets carefully made their way
all through the Golden clusters, which, in brushing; showered pollen down.

He was so young; upon his coat of blue, his Sergeant's chevrons shone.
His eyes were old beyond their years from seeing horror of it all.
He held small hope of better days; most of his comrades were long gone
since they first went a'soldiering; killed here, and there... one, by the one,
and, soon enough, perhaps, his turn to lie all bloating in the Sun,
and not to see, back home in Vermont; leaves burn gold in early Fall.

But, as he wandered in his thoughts; from out the corner of his eye...
a tiny movement over there... he drew his Colt Dragoon, full swift;
and there! Again... a glimpse of grey; firing twice... a faint, pale cry;
a sound, not much like Johnnie Reb; so, through the Golden Rod... waist-high,
he careful, strode; and, there... a crumpled figure... grey, most still did lie.
He reached down to the Rebel cloak; the Yellow and the Grey... did lift.

And there, he saw a Gingham gown; a girl with golden-yellow hair.
Little more then, but a child... sixteen... perhaps, just seventeen;
with blood upon her shoulder.
In the Golden Rod, all lying there...her gun... a four-gauge, squirrel flintlock...
just a toy. In deep despair,
he turned her gently over, and she whispered, with defiant stare,
"Despatch me then, you Yankee Pig... but, just be swift; and make it clean."

Her eyes were hard... they held no fear... the deepest grey, like rain-washed sea.
Just like his baby sisters'. This one was no Rebel Dixie Girl.
The cloak she wore... The Yellow and the Grey... no Cavalry, was she;
the cloak-coat, many sizes larger. This... a worrying mystery.
Were the local folk about here, rising up?... It could just be.
He watched her bite her lip, and whimper, soft... as sharp, the pain did curl.

He reached to her, and gently pulled aside the Gingham, there... to view
her wound; her shoulder shot clean through... his Colt Dragoon... a powerful gun.
He could not leave her here alone; abandonment held no virtue
for a Gentleman... but, he was just a Sergeant, making do;
and Gentlemen were Officers, a different breed... 'aye, that were true.
He lifted her up in his arms, and through the Golden Rod, walked on.

Back up the road, to where he knew, from passing... stood a cabin, rude;
built from logs of Willow Oak, but still enough for shelter, fair.
And shelter was what this girl needed, if her chance were to stand good,
for, though the ball were out of her... her wound, needs must, be cleaned; though crude
were such salves he held; no more than Battle dressings... herbs, long brewed.
But, they would have to be enough; if fever would not take her... there.

He laid her on an old, low cot, and salved her wound, all neatly dressed,
and wrapped her warm about, in her old cloak... The Yellow and the Grey;
and gently asked of her, the reason why such danger she progressed
out on the road in ambush; and her answer was much, as he guessed.
Three brothers lost at Shiloh; and revenge she swore, in black detest
of Yankees; each, and every one... bushwhacking all who passed her way.

They talked a while; he gave her water from his canteen by his side.
Her eyes now looked upon him softer... softer than before; that day.
Then suddenly... a dreadful crash... the cabin door kicked open wide...
Two Reb guerrillas standing there; two sawn-down shotguns, swift espied.
Her cry of "Wait!"..."the flash and crash... four barrels caught him in mid-stride
as he tried to give her distance from the shotguns' deadly spray.

And there, he died upon the floor of that rude hut in Tennessee;
not, for him... the Golden, early Fall in Vermont, far away.
She told them of his gentle kindness... tending her, so carefully;
and so, instead of leaving him to rot... they dug, quite willingly,
his grave, there by the wayside, where they laid him, wrapped most sturdily;
and, for his winding sheet... her cloak...The Yellow and the Grey.

The Beyondness of things... just a walk in the shadows,
down the small hours, in the dead of the night.
The Beyondness of things... that might be... but just could not be;
just out of reaching, and just out of sight.

The Beyondness of touch... The Beyondness of whispers;
Beyondness of holding you safe, in my arms;
Beyondness of sharing the laughter and sadness;
Beyondness of breathlessly, tasting your charms.

The Beyondness of watching a Sunset together...
Beyondness of hopes, and of dreams, we could share;
Beyondness of seeing you on a spring morning,
the soft sunshine pale and serene, in your hair.

The Beyondness of feeling your head on my shoulder,
Beyondness of tasting your lips, softly sweet...
Beyondness of breathing your perfume, beside me.
safe, and caressed by your gentle heartbeat.

The Beyondness of things... each one... just an illusion;
each illusion... an echo, of what might have been.
The Beyondness of things... just a ghost in the ether,
a soft requiem for those sweet, fragile dreams.

The Beyondness of things... with no end... no beginning;
a hauntingly beautiful, sad Rhapsody;
unfinished... the promise not spoilt by an ending;
still hinting perhaps, of things that, yet... might be.

The Beyondness of things... fleeting shadows of fantasy,
close-held; but, quite out of reach... to my eyes.
The Beyondness of things, soft misleading my heart;
please... just let me dream those sweet, little white lies.

The Beyondness of things... a small echo of conscience;
Watchtower of the Vanities; whispering, it seems.
The Beyondness of things... softly voiceless, that tells me
you cannot expect all the things, you would dream.

The Beyondness of things... just a shadowy echo;
regret for the losing of things, yet unknown.
A whispering breeze in the meadows of heartbreak...
The Beyondness of things...where such hope dies, alone.

The Beyondness of things... just a walk in the shadows,
down the small hours in the dead of the night.
The Beyondness of things... just the heart-thoughts, that fade
into nothingness; lost in the soft, morning light.