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A tasteful melody,
Strums in the back of my ever-wandering mind,
Haunting memories of bittersweet simplicity,
Heart-shattering strain and pain,
Agony and pain in each cord,
Each cord resounding with disdain,
As the beat drones on,
Oh it goes on for so long,
The tune dances and strolls along,
Repeating my familiar song.

An ever growing melody,
Lingers on my bursting chest,
Beautiful without rest it continues on,
Each note caressing the four, pale walls,
Seep through the cracks,
For it cannot be contained for long,
As the beat drones on,
Ever going strong,
The tune rejoices along,
To my ongoing song.

A rampant, restless melody,
Pounding my temples as if caving in,
Raging and contemplating sounds,
Oh it resounds quite loud,
The clashing and clanging of the cymbals,
Is almost captivating,
As the thunder joins the throng,
As the beat drones on,
Shouting as it rages along,
The clamor continues headstrong,
To my always familiar song.

A quite, calming melody,
The blissful peace it brings,
Stay awhile dear in this haven,
As the harps ring out and the lilies sigh,
Oh everybody knows this one,
It's symphony is crafted and strong,
As the beat drones on,
Such a lovely and beautiful song,
Glorious as the tune plays on,
To my favorite kind of song.

A fading melody,
Timeless cares of you and me,
The weather piano is drowning,
In a dark and dreadful song,
Weeping a lullaby never-ending,
The flowers sway along,
As the beat drones on,
It has gone on for so very long,
And the tune once sung is finally gone,
To my old, familiar song.
copyright © Deana Lightner 2010
Sweet serendipity,
Oh remarkable boy,
The hold you have on me,
I am overjoyed,
But the question engraved in me,
Still lingers,
In the back of my ever doubtful,
And wandering mind,
Am I ready to fall again?
Fall to another one's grasps,
Left to the fate of those incandescent eyes,
That could either be the key,
To my euphoric wonderland,
Or a hell of a demise.

I am easily twisted up in one's cleverly crafted words,
They are played throughout  in my mind,
As if they were original penned by him,
And who knows maybe, quite possibly, they are.

But oh,
He is fine,
And I do find that I unwind,
Deep in the grasps of his comforting arms.

Could this possibly lead me astray?
From my sweet tooth's possible decay,
Of this pure bliss that seems endless,
What happens if it should disappear?
I suppose I'll be left with a cavity,
Far too soon for the young spirit,
Of these short but drawn out years.

Can I afford to be in such a mess?
For his touch seems worth all the rest,
His smile and persuasive ways,
Captivates me,
The butterflies inside.
Does he know I feel like this?
I do believe he does,
And if I had it my own way,
He would not leave.
Please stay.
copyright © Deana Lightner 2010
I have many nice jars,
All sparkling in a row on my shelf,
Lined up like the books above them,
Each kept safely out of harm’s way,
With no intentions on returning them,
These jars are not mine,
These jars have been stolen,
The culprit- none other than I,
Deviously I took one by one,
Thinking the glass would always sparkle and thrive,
My collection started scarce,
It then began to grow,
For my shelf would be quickly filled,
“This one looks good” I thought,
As I received my very first jar,
Until things went amiss,
I hurried to gather more,
Greedily I thought, “Maybe this one will do,
Ah, Indeed it looks better”,
However, this one was also askew,
My desire sought out another,
My shelf was slowly losing space,
I stepped back to take a look,
At all my pretty jars I’d obtained,
All neatly row by row,
I was terribly shocked,
When I realized what I’d done,
Each jar was filled with precious life,
Still pumping it’s fresh, red blood,
I had plundered so many,
Brought them destruction and strife,
I had bought out each one of their jars,
At any risky price,
I felt so sad for all those jars,
Wishing I could give them back,
And panic set in when I scanned the shelves,
And could not find my own,
The jar that had my name on it,
With a gold, glittery pen,
Was nowhere to be found,
And I ‘d give anything for my jar,
If it only could be done.
copyright © Deana Lightner 2010
The heavy rain
On the well-built roof
That has sheltered a
Young soul for years
In each drop lies
A memory
Reminded of all the years
Held by a soothing voice
When fury comes out in tears
The rain falls on
My heavy heart
Like the weathered stones in
The worn-down pavement
Built up long ago
As if it was yesterday
A small, blue cup of tea
Ignites my long- lost
Try to push back the pain
Bottled up
But it won't go until
Until the last water droplet
Turns cold.
copyright © Deana Lightner 2009
This warm cup of tea,
Mesmerizing me,
Flows in its essence.
Through my senses,
Engaging my mind,
Body and soul, draws
Me brilliant pictures,
Recollection of,
Fondest memories.

I sip- I feel,
A rush of the changing leaves,
An autumn's breeze,
Shivers dance upon my spine,
In such a familiar way,
Flowing through each,
Delicate hair on my head.

I sip- I taste,
The sweet honey reminding me,
Of your lips along with,
The warmth of your hands,
Finding the perfect fit in mine,
The cool air on my breath,
The comfort of fall's finest treats,
Delicate pies,
Many memories,
Flood into my thoughts.

I sip- I dream,
Of unwritten poetry,
Of never ending love,
Real happiness that you,
Would see in God's arms,
Or in that old couple,
Interlacing bodies upon,
Our favorite bench,
Under two familiar oak trees,
With gnarled roots and branches,
Similar to the life we lead.

I sip- I wish,
For perfection in,
Important interests,
Strength in unnecessary,
And unusually or usually,
Difficult situations,
For love, joy,
Happiness, passion like,
We used to share.

I sip- I be,
The girl I am,
The writer in me,
The unspoken artist in,
Words and paintings,
The girl you loved,
A girl with dreams who,
Aspires to be successful,
While being free.
copyright © Deana Lightner 2009
The beat of the old drums echoes in my ears,
Their sound has been remodeled, refashioned,
Into gun fires and explosions,
A cynical melody,
A symphony of unnerving sound,
The play their tune upon the lives of others,
These warriors play a part of the piece too,
Walking the reddened fields,
I am struck by the sight,
Each marred face and blood soaked body,
As I continue walking on,
Their eyes still intense with their efforts & passion,
To protect their homeland but not in vain,
My searching eyes wonder at how they accomplish such a task,
Of violent brutality and heart shattering pain,
Yet they still manage to have some strength,
Down to even the very last second,
As I walk these hallowed grounds once again,
I am reminded of their selfless act,
That allows me to be standing now,
Where I am.
copyright © Deana Lightner 2009
Dysfunctional are we,
As pots of clay,
Imperfect and molded,
By the words of mere men,
That shape our wants and desires from within,
How foolish though is the man that is he,
His destiny chosen by someone's beliefs,
When he is a symphony awaiting to be played,
In perfect harmony,
To make his debut,
Each note sounded out in perfect accord to each word,
He chooses his scenery, his passion, his love,
For she fits him,
Molds to him to complete the piece,
That the one who was molding left out,
A delicate mystery of how he found her,
Her nimble hands as she sewed back,
The buttons upon his favorite tweed jacket,
Or the way her eyes seemed to glisten,
When he smiled to her before leaving the shop,
Her dark, soft hair fitting the picture perfectly,
Engraved upon his mind,
Though years it did take to find the right one,
His finishes his work, his piece,
The job is done,
And the new *** of fine clay,
Is molded with her,
And they become one.
copyright © Deana Lightner 2009

— The End —