Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sharon Hawkins Apr 2011
The mists of Time are softer than
     a foggy morn or shifting sand;
Gliding by on slippered feet,
     she whispers cheating lies so sweet,
Of endless days and longer nights,
     a future drenched in rose-hued lights.

When I was young and I possessed
     all the joys of life, Time was my guest.
She sang a soothing lullaby
    and unawares the years flew by,
She eased the future from my grasp,
    and left me with my solitary past.

For what is youth that measures Time
     and thinks the years will leave behind,
No scars to mark Her passing glance,
     to show you played Her game of chance,
Now only memories linger on,
     for Love is lost and Time has flown.

She touched me with her silken hand,
     I yielded all my dreams so grand,
Yet still the memories linger on,
     though Love is lost and Time has flown.
Sharon Hawkins Apr 2011
The other day while driving down
      a winding country road,
I passed a house that took me back
     to days so long ago.
The shaded porch, the hanging swing,
     the oak trees standing guard,
The carefully tended flower beds,
     the wide expanse of yard,
The big ol' wooden rocking chairs
     where a soul could sit and drowse,
Made me recall so clearly,
     time spent at Grandma's house.

Grandma's house was always open
     to all who happened by.
Kith and kin or long-lost friend
     were met with a welcome cry.
"Come, sit and eat, we'll set another place,
     there's always room for one more".
And when you left you could look back and see her,
     still waving from the open door.

Many years have passed, the family is scattered,
     And that house is no longer home.
But whenever I should happen to pass,
     the feeling still comes so strong.
That I should stop and visit a while
     and a secret or two we'll share.
And then on its heels comes the knowledge,
     that Grandma's no longer there.
All that's left are fond memories
     that all of us grandkids have,
That we can recall so clearly,
      time spent at Grandma's house.
My grandmother passed away in 1977.  For a year or more after she died, my first thought when I passed by the house that she lived in was that I needed to stop in and visit and of course, my second thought was, she's gone.  Then one day several years later, while out driving in the country, I passed by a house that was a composite of all the places my grandmother had ever lived and it brought on a wave of nostalgia so strong that I went home and wrote this poem.
Sharon Hawkins Apr 2011
Without a reason or a rhyme
That's the fickle hands of time
When I'm longing for a slower pace
They sweep,
Desirous of a speedy flight
They creep.
Sharon Hawkins Apr 2011
The night is quiet and dark within
A place to disappear and hide your worries in,
Far away from Life's demands and unforgiving eyes,
Just pull the darkness in around you,
Shut out the lies.

Walk softly in the shadows of the day,
Rest in dusky nooks along the way,
Take solace in closing out
The unrelenting glare of light,
Renewed there in the softness of the night.

In the midnight hour there is no black and white,
No terrors to relive, no wars to fight,
No one there to call attention
To all you've tried and failed to do,
Just the peace of the night....And you.
Sharon Hawkins Apr 2011
Elusive, mystifying, soft wind sighing,
No stomachs bloating, no children wailing,
No souls sailing,
No fathers beating, no mothers screaming,
Ever dreaming,
Perfect world,
Dreamland.

Satisfying, clear water flowing, clean air blowing,
No tainted blood, no children missing,
No killers hissing,
No hate-torn lands, no bombs blasting,
Peace everlasting,
Perfect world,
Dreamland.

Death defying, careless breeders, self-serving leaders,
Power plays, strategic dancing,
All life chancing,
Ultimate pact, malevolent mushroom clouds,
Vaporized crowds,
Perfect world....

— The End —