Longing

I loved you long ago and I can see your face - it glows.
A photo maybe? Or a scene extracted from a play?
With love, I remember that day.

We sat, we talked, we laughed,
we loved, not in the physical sense, but we both
knew what we had done.

I don’t know where you are, what you’ve done or
where you live, but I would really love to
do what we once did.


© 2009 Charles Dennis


http://www.charlesdennis.netne.net

Dreams

I’ll watch the sky tonight and think of where I’d like to
be. I’ll gaze upon the stars, as stray moonlit clouds drift
high above like dreams.

Steady breezes blow the leaves tonight, as they scrape
and rub against each other, creating the soundtrack of
what once was and what will be.

My body, mind and soul, now as one, I ride upon the
dream filled clouds that float so high above.

I will not rush these moments. I’ll watch the sky to-
night, and gaze upon the stars, and think of
where I’d like to be.

I hope tomorrow, I’ll see my dreams drift
high above on moonlit clouds, but a little bit
closer, and not so far they’ll be.


http://www.charlesdennis.netne.net

© 2009 Charles Dennis

Questions of a Poet

If there is a word that describes best what
poetry is, I would say intimate.

Is poetry intimate?

Are not all works of poetry?

Or are they just collections of words laid on paper in nice
organized ways, to make them look professional,
as if they make sense?

I would hope we as poets, writers, or those who think they
make literary sense would believe the former.

As we let our minds spill over onto paper words that flow,
flow from the heart, or flow from some deep secluded
place within our soul.

We scribble on scratch paper random thoughts, things that
make no sense, just so we can remember what we were
thinking in that fleeting feeble moment, only to throw it in
some over stuffed drawer to find some months later, and
then possibly throw back in.

I would say yes, this is intimate, revealing our most
vulnerable feelings of how and where the next valuable and
honest word will show its worth.

What greater joy could one experience, than to have an
affect on a persons life through words? Words that have
emerged from the deep recesses of our mind, body and soul
as if we had laid open our life for all to see, exposed our
self to the world, as couriers of all things good or bad.

Delivering hope and joy, sadness and pain, and answers to
some. We as poets splay out onto paper all of the things
that reside in all of us, only in that organized, unorganized
way that some can understand.

Poetry belongs to all who read it and translate these words
into any one of a thousand different meanings.

Are we poets? I can not say for certainty. Or are we just
another Joe who shows their life in words written in script
in hopes someone will find them?

I Do Not Know!

http://www.charlesdennis.netne.net

© 2009 Charles Dennis