I don't know if this poem is too mushy for this site, but seems we bare all here at SG so why not? We all need someone to call friend, and I was fortunate enough to find someone that inspired this next bit:
I saw you walking in the garden
Where you walked without fear;
picking flowers whoe petals glistened
with dew drops like fallen tears.
I saw you you in the garden
where I heard you laugh out loud
at the birds that ate fermented fruit
and flew into outstreteched boughs.
I saw you in the garden
where the children were all day,
I watched the way you were with them -
a part of games they'd play.
I saw you in the garden
that night you sat alone,
and on your face in moonlit rays
your tears were brightly shown.
I saw you in the garden
when the rain clouds went away
dancing naked, to a song,
your body moved and swayed.
I saw us in the garden
sharing stories of days gone by,
swinging arms as children do,
you my friend, and I.
There are many wonders to behold
inthis garden in which we live
but the most beautiful and precious gift
is your heart to whom you give.
-----------
Now that I read this again, I wonder if I was reading too many Hallmark cards last year when I wrote it? Hard to tell what style I like - this or the dark, brooding prose that sometimes shows the raw exposed nature of humanity. Guess I'll have to dig that up and see what it looks like.....
I saw you walking in the garden
Where you walked without fear;
picking flowers whoe petals glistened
with dew drops like fallen tears.
I saw you you in the garden
where I heard you laugh out loud
at the birds that ate fermented fruit
and flew into outstreteched boughs.
I saw you in the garden
where the children were all day,
I watched the way you were with them -
a part of games they'd play.
I saw you in the garden
that night you sat alone,
and on your face in moonlit rays
your tears were brightly shown.
I saw you in the garden
when the rain clouds went away
dancing naked, to a song,
your body moved and swayed.
I saw us in the garden
sharing stories of days gone by,
swinging arms as children do,
you my friend, and I.
There are many wonders to behold
inthis garden in which we live
but the most beautiful and precious gift
is your heart to whom you give.
-----------
Now that I read this again, I wonder if I was reading too many Hallmark cards last year when I wrote it? Hard to tell what style I like - this or the dark, brooding prose that sometimes shows the raw exposed nature of humanity. Guess I'll have to dig that up and see what it looks like.....
alistairmather:
the problem with hallmark is that they destroyed the common mans attempts to be romantic by making it cliche. i find that whatever suits your mood when you write it is best. poetry is about expression really, not about form.