(and 'twill and 'twas)

~

if e're there be an ode... a dirge,
if e’re procession for a fallen word,
’tis, for thee that we,
this day in silence stand,
to grieve... nay protest,
this thy sudden abandonment.
see, my head on chest,
hear, 'midst sobbing tear,
i lift a toast to thy sweet company,
thy brotherhood, of yesteryear.
’tis, to thee we offer,
these few words of praise;
’tis... to thee in homage,
in salute our hand we raise,
how and why, hast thou gone away?
and when did thy embalmers
so sudden fall upon
thy eternal form of grace?
surely, they that decreed thy death,
hath dealt to us a wint’ry breath;
for n’er hath so small a form,
so satisfied and warmed,
a poet’s lonely bones,
as this friend known as ’tis.
long shall we remember thee;
the grace by which you lived!

~

post script.

my spirit was broken and
my heart wept at this news!  
may he e’re rest in peace!
RIP ’tis!
( i believe in offering credit where credit is due and invite you to read the inspiring comment by Lance Jencks in the after reading of:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1823769/this-river/)
henceforth let it be known by all,
that hereafter these beloved titles shall be called,
“It Is The Season To Be Jolly” and
“It Was The Night Before Christmas"
for tis and ’twas lie in repose!

lovingly yours,
(; Steve

~

she is woman of softened beauty,
like the sunset’s molten hues;
yet rugged as the rocky crags,
that from afar are mountain’s blue,
and which each night at even’s call,
the sun behind will slowly slide.
she is timid as a doe,
’neath a canopy of green,
feeding by the quiet waters;
yet fierce as timber wolf,
among the limbs and leaves
her young from prey she hides.

within her soul she bears her secrets,
without she is ten thousand verses;
as waters trickle to the stream,
and have no voice until,
they join in gathered current,
to fall in thunderous cascade,
as majestic waterfall.
she is a being... light of spirit,
yet bears on dove white shoulders,
pain endured from cruel world.

in the dark she is a light;
in an age of growing grays,
she robes herself in dazzling white.
to each who calls her friend,
she is to them a heroine;
an angel ’midst the darkness,
she works beside, yet out of sight.
of many thoughts, none spill careless,
from her tongue to cross her lips;
yet all her words are weighty,
a bond of promise, made and kept;
these in secret places dark,
in a foundry, hot with sweat;
her long and dusty journey,
leaves on her soul a branded mark.

loyal friend and steadfast mate,
she brings with her a hope eternal,
yet she alone accepts her fate.
she is peace and love maternal;
within her an oasis rare,
few have found, and fewer see;
for all its hidden beauty lies,
behind her softened hazel eyes,
these she guards, the secret way,
the stair beyond her garden’s gate.

~

*post script.

these words christened in celebration of her life, her birth.  she entered the world in the year Camelot began, and though we would not meet til we were both sixteen, she became Camelot to me; a castle of hidden fragrance and beauty.  of these few words she is all, yet so much more.  she is everything i didn’t know i’d want or ever need; at every turn more than my equal, she is the sum of all my parts.  at a glance some judge her simple, yet she is rogue complexity; a woman who discards little, except barriers to those she loves and who love her in return!
Happy Birthday, Darling!!

In your arms I found the open ocean;
Tides, waves, my serene sea,
The most pleasant feeling of a morning breeze.
In your eyes the best night skies;
A Rhythm bright enough to leave the sun behind
and wake up the night in just a heartbeat.
My heartbeats.
Cracked and Irregular by your every move.
In your fingers untold mysteries;
tangled within my own in secrets with the promises of never letting go.
In your hair my favorite melody;
Loud, and ruthless music for my deaf ears:
A Symphony only I can hear.
In your lips my muse;
Better than Erato and Calliope combined,
Carelessly whispering verses
To last me the entire day,
Softer than the birth of Roses.
My Roses.
For they are just for me,
Sprouting from your lips, and blossoming with my touch.
Our touch.
*In you I found poetry.
With verses resting at your lips,
My muse