If I Could Paint Your Picture
Page 2
violin plays until the strings are frayed,
Then the violin its last note has played.
Central Park
Feeling down, feeling gray,
Feeling up, and feeling gay.
Because your ship is passing you by.
Want to laugh, want to cry,
Want to live, and want to fly.
Feeling nothing is there when you sigh.
Find a place, find a song,
Find a way, find a wrong,
Find a dream that keeps you alive.
Search your heart, search your mind,
Search your soul, search mankind,
For a meaning that isn't maligned.
Feel the sun, smell the rain,
Feel the joy feel the pain,
Sense the seasons, linking hands through each dawn.
Hear the birds, hear the leaves,
Hear the crickets and bees,
Touch the mist in the magic it weaves.
Through winter, through spring,
Through summer, through fall,
The seasons turn round and around.
Through melting snows, through greening grass,
Through meadows of blooms that abound,
Until the leaves start to fall to the ground.
Another year follows another year past,
And the buildings stand tall all around.
Damping the bustle and hum of the city sound,
Which fulfills the dreams of a few,
Except for those who enter this place,
And experience a self-cleansing pain,
After a walk in the park through the rain.
Share the people, share their lands,
Share their faces, and share their bands,
Share their music of hate or of love.
For whatever the reason, and whatever the cost,
However you find, whatever you've lost,
Your soul will find itself once again.
When you take a walk in the park through the rain.
Memories
I have seen the shadows
Chasing moonbeams in the rain
White roses in a garden
Cry out from human pain.
Dreams dashed to pieces
In a storm of a sleepless night
And the eyes of a million people
Pray for the gift of sight.
Maybe I have seen too much
In a world that can’t forgive
I’ll pack my bags of memories
Then just forget to live.
There is somewhere so I’ve heard
A place where life is but a speed of light
Where the sun shines through the day and night
And nothings been tainted however slight.
But, in this place you’ll find no Moon
Or, stars to penetrate through the gloom
No birds to sing a morning tune
Or an Owl to hoot, it’s night time soon.
Maybe I have seen too much
In a world that can’t forgave
But I think I’ll keep my memories
And start again to live.
Does It Matter
Does it matter what the time is,
Does it matter what the year.
No it only matters that you exist,
And I know that you are near.
Does it matter if it’s cloudy?
Does it matter if it’s clear?
It only matters that I’ve touched you,
And that you will always be here.
Does it matter if a flower dies?
Does it matter if it grows?
It only matters that I’ve kissed you,
The softest lips are those.
Does it matter if the stars go out?
Does it matter if they shine?
It only matters that I’ve looked into your eyes,
And that they have looked into mine.
Does it matter if lovers live forever?
Does it matter if they die?
It only matters that I hear your voice,
With words that fill my heart by and by.
Does it matter if you’ve had another life?
Does it matter that once you were not with me?
It only matters that now you are my lover,
And that you now lay down beside me.
Empty Labels
I loathe my lips and these hands,
With which I touched you.
I loath my words and these eyes,
With which I saw you.
And those arms which cradled your head,
Against this heart, of which you fed.
You took them all and left me nothing.
You wrung me dry and left me not one thing,
With which I could hope for,
With which I could live for.
And now I just pray.
For the time that is no more.
Now I have nothing to live or to die for,
And nothing to hope or to cry for.
Just a nightmare of memories and empty tables,
Where your words, unlike my words,
And your thoughts, unlike my thoughts,
We’re just a list of empty labels.
You took them all and left me nothing.
You wrung me dry and left me not one thing,
With which I could hope for,
With which I could live for.
And now I just pray.
For the time that is no more.
Fine Wine
In my life I’ve tasted many wines.
In many lands.
In many places.
Where language and creeds were barriers.
These were the bitter wines,
And my first impulse was to dash the bottle to the floor,
And run away and never show myself again.
My second reaction was to find out why.
But I never did.
Some wines were dry.
As dry as the deserts of North Africa.
And at night as cold as the desert night.
I tried to become accustomed to the taste,
But to no avail.
I needed a warm bodied wine,
Not a wine that has me gasping for something sweeter,
Or something warmer.
Some wines were sweet.
Yes, some sickly sweet.
These I recognized before I tasted.
And avoided, like a mouse avoids the cat.
Ah, but those sweet wines.
Those wines that heightened the pallet.
Those wines that soothed and brought joy,
Those wines that bridged the islands of the journey,
That begins at birth and ends at another birth.
Between these births there are the growing pains.
The wines of life.
Searching for the perfect bouquet.
The perfect blend that is not too dry,
Is not too sweet,
Is not too bitter.
This blend has the bouquet of a silken strand.
Riding on the wind.
A taste that fulfils all your dreams.
And casts aside your nightmares,
Of being lonely,
Of being unhappy,
Of not having someone to want, of not having someone to need.
Of not having someone to hold through the cold nights.
Of not having someone to smile at, to touch, to caress.
Of not having someone to laugh with, to cry with, to make love to.
To miss when asleep, too miss when out of sight.
Have I found my wine, my blend of perfection?
If I Could Paint Your Picture
If I Could Paint Your Picture
Just one chance is all I’d need.
I’d paint your eyes in flecks of green,
And instead of books your eyes I’d read.
If I could paint your picture,
For
the brush your hair I’d use.
And I’d run my fingers through your hair,
Whenever, I did choose.
If I could paint your picture,
Your lips would need extra care.
Colours of varying moods and hues, to invite
The kiss, which I’d place there.
If I could paint your picture,
You would then be near me every day.
Your picture would then become my bed,
And on your breasts, my head I’d lay.
If I could paint your picture,
Your smile would light my way.
Each brush stroke would then reflect,
All the words I’d ever say.
But I could never paint your picture,
Because no colours could ever show,
The depth that I see in you,
A closeness that grows and grows.
My Lady
Oh that I would forget at last
That one brief summer in the past
Of skies so blue, of air so clear
And nights so cool with stars so near
When I met my lady.
The Sparkling eyes and husky laugh
Lured me often to the hearth
To sit at her feet in wondrous mind
And gaze transfixed at my life’s find
Listening to my lady.
Long dark hair her eyes of green
By my side she was a queen
A smile so rare, her graceful air
All heads turned when she was there
Yes, she was my lady.
For two hundred days and two hundred nights
We savoured all of loves delights
Till that day she looked so pale
And the doctors came to no avail
And she died my lady.
I’ve wondered since from land to land
Just barely living nothing planned
Perhaps I should not count the cost
For tis better to have loved and lost
Then never have loved my lady.
Long dark hair and eyes of green
By my side she was a queen
A smile so rare, her graceful air
All heads turned when she was there
For a second in time she was my lady.
Night Walk in Beirut
Shades of sorrow surround your eyes.
As somewhere in the darkness a baby cries.
Lovers pass unnoticed, hand in hand
As your steps drag slowly through the sand.
Down a moonlit path to the sea you face.
Moonbeams hold you in their tender embrace.
The jewel’s of the night, which the sea has cast.
Mirror your tears of a future past.
Across the yellow ribbon you pass.
Your passage cracks the sea like a pane of glass.
Just a brief pause as your breath it implores.
Then the moonlight dances on empty shores.
Tears of Time
Wait until the day I die,
And then, my dear, you too can fly,
To far off lands of sun and sea,
Moonlit nights, and tranquillity.
To an island where a steel band plays
Heart strings soothed by balmy days,
To a mountain stream where a hero’s song,
Still echoes the wind that leaves dance on.
When your wings have tired of flight,
And you’re forced to shelter from the dark of night,
Dream