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Jude kyrie Nov 2016
I love you Maytime
A short love story
By
Jude Kyrie.

I was sitting on a
central park bench
alone again.
She was gone
my job was gone.
It's ok she never loved me
I thought.
Well perhaps I never loved her either.
I loved the money
hated the job.
so where am I now?

The power job the money
the recognition
The trophy girlfriend.
That's what I wanted
That's what I desired.
Well they had all gone now.
And I felt so ****** alone.

That's when I met
the the crazy lady .
The hippie on steroids.
She said
Hello Maytime.
I said Maytime?
Yes she purred.
wanna be my Maytime?

I need a new project
and you look like
you need saving.
Come back with me
and have a coffee she said.
She was sort of hippie pretty.

I followed her.
What's the harm in a coffee.?
It was a walk up
just on the outskirts
of central park.
It was nice
except for the six puppies
running about the place.
I steal them
from the perfume company labs.
They use them
for experimental purposes
They hurt their eyes.
she explained her crime
in a matter of fact manner.
So I break in and get them.
I save things she said.

I will save you too
if you want.
I---I don't need saving
I explained.
You do so badly
Just look how lost you are.
No job no girl
no love
no happiness.
No scent of a lover on you.
You are lost in the wilderness.

Stay here just for Maytime.
thirty days
I will cure you.
I turned to the door to leave
She was nutty as a fruitcake.
But she swirled me to face her
I saw her inner beauty.
Her eyes were blue as the spring sky.
Her lips soft and curved at the ends
In a smile
that was just bursting to get out.

It was me I think
Yes for sure it was me.
I pulled her close
and kissed her perhaps
too hungry
too greedy
too taking
Too presumptuous.

Slowly she begged
slowly Maytime
Gently be gentle honey.
I left her and ran outside.

She followed me out
into the deluge of night rain.
Don't go she purred
be my sweet Maytime.
She held my hand.
Holding my head
into her soft breast.

I thought she could not see
the tears falling down my face.
But she knew...she knew
they were there.

I followed her back
into the apartment.
She took me to her bed.
I was quiet and gentle
Just like she asked of me
Just like I wanted to be
Somewhere deep inside myself.

I said stupid things to her.
That a man like me never says.

Like you are so beautiful
I need you
I need you so much
You are an angel
help me please.
help me find me.

I reached for her so gently
Our lips finding electricity
when they almost
but not quite touched.
Igniting sparks in me that
I had never felt.before.

She took off my shirt
I was hers all of hers.
She kissed away my my tears
don't stop them
let them out she whispered.
Let them all go honey.
And she made love to me.

I was found
at last this was the me
I had been lost
for so long
in the wilderness of
New York City life.
I slept deeply
and peacefully
for the first time
In years.
I lay in her arms all night.
On waking I whispered
I am falling in love with you.
I felt her stiffen in our embrace.

Don't ever say that Maytime.
Never say that that again
Or I Will end us early.
I knew she meant it.

I got a phone call
my boss offered me
my old job back.
She said
if you take it we are over
It's what you hate doing.
I turned it down
and lay in homage of her.

May went by
A day at time unnoticed.
I felt all I could not say
I was in love.
Hopelessly in love with her.

Then I took the puppies for a walk!
When I got back
she was being sick real badly.
I held her close
and she was crying
in the middle of the day.
Hush hush honey
it's ok
I will make it ok
I promised.
But I couldn't.

She was very sick
She had always been sick.
This saving thing
was her redemption.

She said are you cured maytime
it's only the twenty fifth of May.
I said yes sweetheart
I am cured.
I have been cured
since the first day of May.

When she left me
It was the last day of May.
I was out finding forever homes
for Brahms and Liszt
Two of her puppies.

She left a note for me
by her bed
on the night table.
She wrote
I always loved you
sweet Maytime.
Always.

I got back to work last week
It's not much of a job
The pay is lousy
The hours are long.
But I help people
at the homeless shelter.
And funnily enough
I really love the work.
There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,      
   Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;  
   Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,              
   And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.        
   There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool,
   And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:          
   In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare,      
   Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.    
   There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna,              
   And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound.              
   As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find              
   When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;              
   I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,                  
   As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.              
   Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start -          
   For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.
I

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
  nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the ****** in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

                              but speak the word only.

IV

Who walked between the violet and the violet
Whe walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke
  no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

    O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and
  deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,
  time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

    O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

    O my people.

VI

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
  of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.
Jude kyrie Oct 2015
The Last of the Maytime blossoms.
By
Jude Kyrie

She opened her eyes
as the noise on the stairs
awakens her.
At least she is still
here she muses.
The cat mews
as the noise passes her
on the stairs
.
Even from the distance
to her room .
She can smell springtime
it is like a last gift.
The bedroom door opens.
And her fading senses
are overloaded
with beautiful fragrance.
It is Ben her husband
His arms are loaded
with branches of
cherry blossoms
in full bloom.

In her head for
just a single moment.
She is a little girl again
Wearing her
White communion dress.

In the background
Children’s voices
From a long past time
Singing softly
her favorite
May time Hymn.

"O Mary! we crown thee
with blossoms today,
Queen of the Angels,
and Queen of the May"

She was a child again
Walking along
a misty pathway.
Around her
the fragrant blossoms
proliferate the trees.

A beautiful lady
gently took her hand.
As she looked behind
her so far away.
She saw the room
Where she lay
as if in sleep.
Ben was kissing her goodbye.
But she was happy
She knew now
the kiss was only farewell
She would see him again.
Lilian Cortis Apr 2015
If, in fragrant gardens blooms
the maltese rose
reminds us the shade of
Your Lovely Face
O Mary,
looking up to the twinkle of smiles
in the midnight skies
we see Your Eyes
O Merciful One

You're the Wonder of Heaven
Light of Creation
Mother of the One Who Shapes
Time. With You. Complete
Translation from National Poet of Malta, Dun Karm Psaila
Jude kyrie Aug 2015
Cherry blossoms,daffodils
tulips, Iris and Hyacinth.
and along the border
of my pathway.
***** and Peony
lupines forget- me -nots
and Oh! Lilac
I must not forget Lilac.
It was her favorite.
Today all the windows
are open the breath
of her flowers
that she loved so
are with me.
As perhaps so is she.
As our favorite month
of the year
Cascades in its merriment
of colors.
I whisper
Happy Springtime
My Love.
Jude kyrie Nov 2018
In the orchard cherry blossoms bloom
As pure as the fallen snow
The fragrant air sings a springtime tune
A melody we both did know.

I sit below our cherry tree
And reach out for your hand
The aching heart no one can free
The sadness I cannot stand.

fragrant breezes touch my face
As softly as you touched my skin.
I feel you so close my heart does race
And another maytime will begin.
Ahh the memories
Jude
Twice a week the winter thorough
Here stood I to keep the goal:
Football then was fighting sorrow
For the young man's soul.

Now in Maytime to the wicket
Out I march with bat and pad:
See the son of grief at cricket
Trying to be glad.

Try I will; no harm in trying:
Wonder 'tis how little mirth
Keeps the bones of man from lying
On the bed of earth.
Maytime romance under the vernal lamp
of creation
Wrapped with invisible arms
Under the spell of sylvan charms
Appeasing lanes embellished-
with pink Begonia and baby-blue -eyes
Catalpa trees blushing in the marmalade sky
Strawberry thoughts , young lessons-
from green pinecones
Brandy freshwater branches fill river neighbor-
saplings
Nuthatch mothers sing of the day in sunflower gardens
Copyright April 6 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Momma Thrashers working song , familiar voice of hedgerow levity
Timeless tune of the Springtide brevity
Pitch perfect Maytime sun-kissed divinity
Songs of hope and lasting serenity
Copyright May 9 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Nigel Morgan Feb 2015
This is a poem
made by her hand
a poem of marks
you can read
left to right

right to left
any which way
an ascemic script
it tells a tale
late in the day

beside a river still
sunlit clouds vast
in a Maytime sky
down on the mud
and shingled shore

these found things
arrived at her feet
as they do when
waiting for her
dear hand’s touch

upon their metalled
forms rusted and
rivered by the daily
tides the diurnal
wash and dry of

weather and watered
river mud-coloured
beside boats bedded
in the river bank each
plaqued to remember

thirty wooden boats in all
that plied a river’s journey
there and back once
to and fro now
charged up high

on Pulton shore
a motorized trow
a top-sail schooner
Edith and the
New Despatch

steel and concrete
barges Severn Collier
and Mighty Monarch
lying hard into the silt
a yard at rest

a grave of vessels
Pulton is a village beside the River Severn in Gloucestershire, UK. To see the graphic sketch created from objects 'found' at Pulton boat graveyard see: http://instagram.com/p/yuGrLvKtEy/?modal=true
transcendent it was the first time
when it was of faint memory to touch

but voluminously told, exacting itself
like the pretense of the heaviest pages

the curve of your face the entry of light
through momentary indulgence

nerves their city buoys and the pedestrians
salt of skin in intense heat begging for details,

ways to sewerage of mind and previous blunders
and the purest landscapes of feeling,

the underpasses of eyelids where glances hit
first, stalk swiftly – to wait underneath their

shade in the fleeting Maytime sun
coming back with renewed fervor, remembering

that from there, waiting in that margin,
there are things that may only strike a potential

but never learned, memorized, collapsed into
the absolute, and that lostness is imperative

to the finding –
the river of eyes where pilgrims are in transit,

well-constructed like the mausoleum that
keeps its secret of hills and cathedrals

kept unmarred in the silence of your refusal,
pulled out to be nailed taut into origin

the blankness of your face taken as mechanism
of marvel – to whoever god drew lines on your face

and to whoever foolish wanderer would dare traverse
your collapsible bridges, the sonorous depth

of your being when back against the dash
of beating back to senseless origins,

your name similar to the prepared countenance
of Manila, passers-by in awe of your slow Moon

unraveling behind curtains for showerheads,
humming behind, a conversant tune

where not one being ignored and it was true
to the form of first whispers

this whole new world mapped out
made naked to the twisted augur of shadow

reared by light through innocence,
a whole city I know but cannot touch.
Lilian Cortis Apr 2015
In sweetness of maytime
Our Good Mother Mary
How gentle the notes of
Your Beautiful Name
How strong is the power
that brings forth the Word
from our hearts in hope
our praises give you
Greatest Honor

You're the Wonder of Heaven
Light of Creation
Mother of the One Who Shapes
Time, With You, Complete
Translation from National Poet of Malta, Dun Karm Psaila
Nigel Morgan May 2014
There on the path
she stands,
the evening sun
sculpting her face
with light and shade.

An on-shore wind
has dressed the curls
in her hair and
between expressions
she’s composed,
in charge of herself,

hand on her camera,
almost a smile
on those petalled lips
he loves to brush
and rest his tongue
between and kiss,

and there behind her
a backdrop:
a river
on the ebb,
a shoreline path
of Maytime green,
and a sky of floating
*cumulus mediocris.
We have now become this bleached wall exposed
to graffiti; you and I, lost in a vector dwindling somewhere
between flight and ground-woven footing.
Like only such delicate secret opens to tongued up
and thighed upon space – only nightscapes the air dares elope with,
but isn’t that what absence hands over, a roughed up winding
moonlight suspended in crunched ether, or something else
that bade sibilance of speech rammed in preterit?
A blossoming descends in Maytime, besmirched with dreams
collapsing on obelisks. The moment in which I thought you
to be devouring space, nurturing a whelm of heat squalled and
intent, fanning a spleen of intimation, riveting a conflagration.
Else it was before, sulking in the finagling quiet: truths hauled
out and carved to foists,
      much room it was to differ a voice and fragment message,
      staring at this world the first time and the last – all at once
      in that rampaging instance, the rest of the world pinned down
                                                        befo­re me.
sheilakijawaani Nov 2020
Pearl of the Indus,
January fades into February.
February slumbers in march on your lap,
I wonder what’s with the November criminals.
The waves of silence that
Hit our ears and eyes in October;
Did they get engulfed by the November criminals?
Late into the Maytime
January faded into February.
The flowers napped happily
As February bloomed it to march.
I understand if the flowers were stolen by the November criminals
But must they shroud the heavens too?
The little child wails along with sky and above
When the other children
Set them to fire.
November criminals;
What do you see in those November flower pots?
That you miss in march’s pots.
Do they have to crackle to bring joy in you?
Do they have to combust to bring life around you?
When they often take them away from you.
if you move with the moon every year,
why conceal it with your fog every night
during the five-day strike?
November criminals,
I’m afraid you can’t be contained.
The customs are bigger than the laws in our land.
Hopefully, you pass as a man-made disaster…
           -4324
Jude kyrie Oct 2018
I need to write you a love poem.
No Maytime and flowers.
No June and moon.
But smoldering with passion
And heated desires
so much so
It will slow down time itself
to a motionless crawl
dragging out
the seconds into hours
Until you return to my bed.

Filling your thoughts with
Desire and lust.
As dangerous
as the surging rapids
of the mountain rivers
after the winter snow melts.

So intense
it burns away propriety
And we will feast
on its wild ancient flavors.

So encapsulating
upon reading its words.
You will unfasten your hair
as you drop everything else
and run to me.

And when we meet
No words
No words
No words
Let's not waste
our breath on words.
Wow
I think a nice cup of tea
is in order
Jude
done over this afternoon I only have one image
and about you were many other surly things

all wrapped in the sudden heat of happening
through the clear eye of a diaphanous world.

inmost spring of an unreachable bud,
a raw material for hurt kept in the after-hour

of a dwindled morning charged to dark
moving with precise instep

rummaging for completion
underneath an untamed sky

left for claim but not entirely as to be free,
no remnant of the hour’s expensive thrill

where I do not find you in me,
as I am still down on your able ghost

pinning it down to where it will never
meet its breakable place:

a wondrous dawn, or the fever of Maytime afternoon,
  in your most excellent clothes

or else it was simply desire
Say a prayer for happiness each night by the light of the Maytime Moon and Mother Nature will answer you with the fireflies of June*...
Copyright April 28 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Jude kyrie Oct 2015
Requiem
By
Jude Kyrie


Tread softly for she lies below
in silent reverence quiet and low.
Above her now the flowers grow
And she can see me
this I know.

In her blooming maytime
She left this world
In youths glowing beauty
yet unfurled.

All that was shining
Is now to rust.
All that was beautiful
has turned to dust.

Too young to lose
Her woman's charms.
To soon to leave
my loving arms.

White as lilies
in the fields that grow.
Pure as the
freshly fallen snow.

No more to Hold
her to my breast
Gone forever
to her rest.

Never to hear
sweet music play.
All I love was
lost that day.

Lay me with  her.
And cover me with clay.
Jude kyrie Aug 2019
I need to write you a love poem
My love.
Not Maytime and roses or lilacs in bloom.
But raging with heated passions
and darkest desires.

so much so that as you read it.
It will slow down time
to a motionless crawl
dragging out the seconds
Until you can return to my bed.

Filling your thoughts
with fire and blood red lust.
As dangerous as the charging rapids
of the mountain streams
after the winter snow melts.
as hot as the erupting lava of volcano.

So intense it burns away all propriety
As we feast on its wild ancient flavors.
So encapsulating
upon reading its words.
You will unfasten your hair
upon your shoulders
as you drop everything else in life
and run to me.

And when we again meet
No words
No words
No words
Let's not waste our breath
on words
A protes Poem
Against hallmark
For the perfumed Pooh
That proliferate their cards
Jude
Jude kyrie Aug 2018
The portrait of a lady

1926 London England

He was poor.
who needed a starving artist in this coldest of  winters.
Spending his last few shillings
he bought a ticket to the play.
It was at the London hippodrome.
Staring Miss Abigail Kendrick.

He had read of her for years
in a theatre magazine
in the little country hamlet
that he had spent his whole life.

In the theatre she shone like the star she was.
Even when the spotlights faded
All that he could see
was the beautiful color
of her turquoise eyes.

In the second act
he was in love with her.
By the end of the play
he was besotted.

He went back to his tiny room
By not eating
he bought the paints and canvas.
Carefully mixing his colors
on the pallet.

he found the exact hue he sought.
The perfect turquoise of her eyes.
When it was completed
he thought it to be the pinnacle
of his work thus far in his life.

After the next show was over
he waited outside
by  the theatre stage door.
Several Hours later
she appeared dressed beautifully

He stepped forward into the gaslight
from the flickering streetlamp.
You are the most beautiful creature
in gods creation he uttered.
I am in love with you
so much in love.

He passed the small painting to her.
And she took it from him.
It's ...it's.. so beautiful she whispered.
Not as beautiful as you milady

She kept the painting
for her whole life.
Always in a predominant position
in her stage dressing room.
She heard the artist had died
a few weeks later
after he gave her her picture.

2017 London

The young woman entered
.the old building in London.
Her great great grandmother
had passed on
she was left all of her possessions.
She was over 100 years old when she died
and the girl knew there
would not be much of earthly value.

But it was her duty to clear her apartment.
She saw the programs of the the plays
her great grandmother had been in.

Then she saw the painting
on her old mantle shelf.
It was so beautiful
a portrait
of her great great  grandmother
in her maytime.

The eyes were dancing in the light
even now so turquoise
She had been a great beauty.
She looked at the name
of the artist in bottom corner.
It was signed.
With all my heart and love
Roger Donovan

Her heart stood still for a moment.
She had to call her own artist man
who had stolen her heart forever.

She. Pressed his name in her contact. List
Her cell phone sent the call.
The receptionist
at the art gallery answered.
Can I speak
with James Donovan please.

He answered the phone
He was excited rushing to tell her his news.
and said darling I have just completed
your portrait it is the best work
I have ever done.
I truly believe
I have the exact hue
of your beautiful turquoise eyes.
Ahhh romance
jude
Jude kyrie Dec 2017
The portrait.

1926 London

He was poor.
who needed a starving artist in this cold winter..
Spending his last few shillings
he bought a ticket to the play.
It was at the London hippodrome.
Staring Miss Abigail Kendrick.

He had read of her
in a theatre magazine
in the little country hamlet
that he had spent his whole life.

In the theatre she shone like the star she was.
Even when the spotlights faded
All that he could see
was the beautiful color
of her turquoise eyes.

In the second act
he was in love with her.
By the end of the play
he was besotted.

He went back to his tiny room
By not eating
he bought the paints and canvas.
Carefully mixing his colors
on the pallet.

he found the exact hue he sought.
The perfect turquoise of her eyes.
When it was completed
he thought it to be the pinnacle
of his work thus far in his life.

After the next show was over
he waited outside
by  the theatre stage door.
Several Hours later
she appeared dressed beautifully

He stepped forward into the gaslight
from the flickering streetlamp.
You are the most beautiful creature
in gods creation he uttered.
I am in love with you
so much in love.

He passed the small painting to her.
And she took it from him.
It's ...it's.. so beautiful she whispered.
Not as beautiful as you milady

She kept the painting
for her whole life.
Always in a predominant position
in her stage dressing room.
She heard the artist had died
a few weeks later
after he gave her her picture.

2017
The young woman entered
.the old building in London.
Her great great grandmother
had passed on
she was left all of her possessions.
She was over 100 years old when she died
and the girl knew there
would not be much of earthly value.

But it was her duty to clear her apartment.
She saw the programs of the the plays
her great grandmother had been in.

Then she saw the painting
on her old mantle shelf.
It was so beautiful
a portrait
of her great great  grandmother
in her maytime.

The eyes were dancing in the light
even now so turquoise
She had been a great beauty.
She looked at the name
of the artist in bottom corner.
It was signed.
With all my heart and love
Roger Donovan

Her heart stood still for a moment.
She had to call her own artist man
who had stolen her heart forever.

She. Pressed his name in her contact. List
Her cell phone sent the call.
The receptionist
at the art gallery answered.
Can I speak
with James Donovan please.

He answered the phone
and said darling I have just completed
your portrait it is the best work
I have ever done.
I truly believe
I have the exact hue
of your beautiful turquoise eyes.
Just a sentimental love story
We will awaken from our deep slumber with new clarity
cleansed and healed.
We shall return to our weary world refreshed,
united in our losses and lessons learned.

We will remember them as the flowers that grow amongst the graves,
as Maytime thunder, deeply scarring and searing
we shall hold candles to their names,
burn ablaze the bright path ahead

It shall pass like a dream, nights of battling unseen beasts from beyond long gone,
dazed but knowing certain that it had passed.
The days will no longer bleed and blur into one another,
But rather, we shall step forth into blooming horizons renewed, refreshed

As long as the human spirit is not extinguished
The flame of hope shall be rekindled,
for now, spring is here -

And the world begins anew
Jude kyrie Sep 2015
Tread softly for she lies below
in silent reverence quiet and low.
Above her now the flowers grow
And she can see me
this I know.

In her blooming maytime
She left this world
In youths glowing beauty
yet unfurled.

All that was shining
Is now to rust.
All that was beautiful
has turned to dust.

Too young to lose
Her woman's charms.
To soon to leave
my loving arms.

White as lilies
in the fields that grow.
Pure as the
freshly fallen snow.

No more to Hold
her to my breast
Gone forever
to her rest.

Never to hear
sweet music play.
All I love was
lost that day.

Lay me with  her.
And cover with clay
Jude kyrie Dec 2018
The portrait.

1926 London

He was desperately poor.
who needed a starving artist in this cold cruel English winter..
Spending his last few shillings he bought a ticket to the play.
It was at the London hippodrome.
Staring Miss Abigail Kendrick.
He had read of her in a theatre magazine
in the little country hamlet
that he had spent his whole life.
but here he was in London
and she who had stolen his heart with a magazine picture.
Was here, he must see her.

In the theatre she shone like the star she was.
Even when the spotlights faded
All  he could see were the beautiful color of her turquoise eyes.
In the second act he was in love with her.
By the end of the play he was besotted.

He went back to his tiny room
By not eating he bought the paints and canvas.
Carefully mixing his colors
on the pallet.
he found the hue he sought.
The perfect turquoise of her eyes.
When it was completed
he thought it to be the pinnacle
of his work thus far in his life.

After the next show was over
he waited outside the theatre stage door.
Several Hours later
she appeared dressed beautifully

He stepped forward into the gaslight
from the flickering street lamp.
You are the most beautiful creature
in god's creation he uttered.

I am in love with you so much in love.
He passed the small painting to her.
And she took it from him.
It's ...it's.. so beautiful she whispered.
Not as beautiful as you milady

She kept the painting for her whole life.
Always in a predominant position
in her stage dressing room.
She heard the artist had died
a few weeks later after he gave her her picture.
So sad so very sad.

2018

The young woman entered
.the old building in London.
Her great great grandmother
had passed on
she was left all of her possessions
She was over 100 years old when she died
and the girl knew there
would not be much of earthly value.

But it was her duty to clear her apartment.
She saw the programs of the the plays
her great grandmother had been in.
Then she saw the painting
on her mantle shelf.

It was so beautiful
a portrait of her great great  grandmother
in her beautiful maytime.
The eyes were dancing in the light
even now so turquoise

She had been a great beauty.
She looked at the name of the artist in bottom corner.
With all my heart and love Roger Donovan
Her heart stood still for a moment.

She had to call her own artist man
who had stolen her heart forever.
She pressed his name in her contact list
Her cell phone sent the call.

The receptionist at the art gallery answered
Can I speak with James Donovan please.
He answered the phone excitedly
and said darling I have just completed
your portrait it is the best work
I have ever done.
I truly believe
I have the exact hue
of your beautiful turquoise eyes.
Serendipity perhaps
Jude
Jude kyrie Nov 2018
On winters snowbound nights
We sit together by the fire
The Maple wood glowing red
As sleep drifts upon us
Like a billowing cloud

Dreams appear once more
Of long ago days of our youth
And we open the book of love
That we wrote together
Page by page
across the fleeting years

I see you splendid
in your beautiful Maytime
Your eyes as grey
as a foggy morning.
They are filled with memories
Of our passions.
Hiding the ravages of a lifetime.

I hold my hand to yours
And we still connect like two stars
Caught in each other gravity
for eternity.
]
symbiosis
of the soul
Jude
Alan S Jeeves Jul 2021
I recall a day, a sky-blue day,
Still in my head, yet far away.
When first you led my mind astray
And left me vanquished, come what may,
The day I saw you cool, serene;
When you were simply sweet sixteen.

For, as swinging years were new
And careless days, about us, grew
And you walked, sudden, into view
Along the leafy avenue.
The day I saw you cool, serene;
When you were simply sweet sixteen.

Your hair shone brightly in the light,
As noonday sun had reached its height;
As you came dancing into sight
And I would gaze, as well I might,
The day I saw you cool, serene;
When you were simply sweet sixteen.

I knew that from that moment, there,
A certain stirring charged the air
And by that lime tree yonder, where,
You passed me by without a care.
The day I saw you cool, serene;
When you were simply sweet sixteen.

And thoughts came flooding, unforeseen,
And such a day had never been.
Yet still, the thrill is evergreen
When you were, then, the Maytime Queen.
The day I saw you cool, serene;
When you were simply sweet sixteen.
Longing for the flowers that adorn my garden patch
I open wide the door that I imagine sits unlatched
Inside this magic land of mine, I'm longing to explore
every dainty blossom bud arranged with sweet adore
Une belle epoque, ..."a period of high artistic view"
each boutonnieres a whisper of, " and how are you ?"
Abiding in the charms of my annual florets,
I sit and take to wonder, how it is that we first met
It was Maytime and the sun was oh ! bran new
yes we were enamoured and we stuck like crazy glue
Two petals sharing one flower, we clung like poetry
leaning on each other sharing secrets, drinking tea
Oh but that was long ago, when love was all we knew
two flowers growing wild aside some gentle feverfews
Steadfast as the sun and moon we were back then
as I sit here in my garden for the life of me,
I cannot remember, when ?

— The End —