A sultry wind surges o'er the Mediterranean.
Rosy fingered dawn wakes the world,
As I habitually walk the lonely path to labor.

A melancholy song sounds from the barley field.
Hypnotized, I follow through undulating grain,
Which lithely tosses back and forth in dance.

‘Neath a willow, amongst the barley, sits a girl,
Garbed in a white tunic, playing her angelic harp.
Her hazel hair weightlessly sways in the wind.

Her olive toned fingers pluck with mastery.
Nobility marks her solemn dark brows,
That sit atop commanding, umber eyes.

The harp's supple bends are a tribute
To the lady's long limber figure,
As she directs wind and waves by ballad.

She looks up from her earthen dais,
Eyes aglow with a playful, sultry look.
Pierced by her gaze, I awake...

With her, my wife, beside me.

Take me to the crystal rivers that flow
with calm pristine diamond torrents that glow.
Take me to where all seasonless yields grow
from the effortless hands of men who sow.
Take me to lands of neither high nor low,
where equality reigns with none below.
I see meadows lush that men do not mow.
I see people who do not toil for dough,
with minds innocent, and without a foe,
beaming with smiles radiant that overflow.
In gardens green where sorrow does not show,
kindness is what all men their neighbours owe.
For all men do not accusations throw
at their neighbours calm who vice do not know.
Where each man with a cheerful heart says hello!

Feelings,
Shown—

Feelings,
Grown.

I can’t help but to
                                fall in awe
                                                   with her
                                                             ­      idyllic astonishment;

like how the moonbeam shines its ray
to lit up the darkened night sky
amongst all the unrest souls in their
                                                           ­     (not so)
                                                             ­                  blissful slumber.

I beg your pardon, m'lady—
for I have mistaken your
                                              b e a u t y
                                                               ­    for
                                                             ­      Misconstrued Paraselene.

Even now, the gardens of our past refurbish themselves in the heat of my ongoing halt against time. Perhaps for someone like me, idyll glimpses of love reside only in the solitude of lyricism, open windows, those comatose streetlights, and the interstate of dreams.

                                           —

the sound of the highway outside
whispers through this rain-tapped glass:

quiet and fleeting and constant,
so like wind and rain and nature,
ebbs and flows, soothes with those
highs and lows and breaks—

with no telling when it will end,
just a rhythm like sleepy breaths,
a lullaby in the making

i prefer this noise to silence
outside my window in that dark;
a vast world alive and vibrant
while i slip into muted dreams

The uneatable is a mirage
        to those thirsty for an oases
of dream like delusions.

For nothing is waiting,
       Its only now that we
                 see idyllic reflections.

There aren't steps but a mirage
               of what our lives were.

Every step is our creation
                       to others dreams.
That we help with, our every
           reflection is there's to strive for...

"My roots run deep hearn' these Green Mountains of Vermont. "

All Rights Reserved © 2016 Ma Cherie

Idyllic love poems wander the hills
with a pining goat herd playing his pipe
and singing mournful song
echoing down the quartz sculpted gorge
beneath waterfalls
where alabaster-skinned Naiads
lithe and languorous
bathed in crystal brooks.

Romantic poems lounge on sofas breathless  
wearing corsets and crinolines
desperate
and untouched
*******
strands of hair

   John Donne’s love poems
are wet
  with wit.