The Final 50 Poems
An Evening with Emily, 051
There came a wind like a bugle;
It quivered through the grass,
And a green chill upon the heat
So ominous did pass. [ED]
A roiling cloud of wind
leaves nothing in its path,
every tree and every bud
can feel its angry wrath;
it rages at the waters
and drowns the sodden grass,
wreaks havoc on the houses
until it deigns to pass.
A heritage of madness
resides upon its wake,
harbours filled with rubble,
the streets a newborn lake,
and those of us who witness
what dread Nature can create
keep watch for clouds of wind,
despairing of our fate.
An Evening with Emily, 052
I know a place where summer strives
With such a practiced frost,
She each year leads her daisies back,
Recording briefly, “Lost” [ED]
Summer took a holiday
and never came this year,
I never saw her footprint,
her voice was never near,
perhaps she was too busy
to spend her time with us,
and sent instead the clouds
and winds with fearful gusts;
the sun came out at times
to inveigle us with dreams
that gloomy days were lost
within her golden beams,
but then the clouds came back,
the sky turned solemn grey,
and we knew we were deceived
by the game that Summer plays,
and now as Autumn enters
with blasts of chilling air,
I look back upon a season
that was never really there.
An Evening with Emily, 053
How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And does not care about careers,
And exigencies never fears. [ED]
She held a stone within her hand,
its shape was smooth and round,
no marks of injury existed,
no scars of living could be found,
pristine as if a newborn child,
yet older than the trees,
it simply stood along the road
and felt no need to please,
experienced no torment,
immune to wrath or hate,
safe within the confines of
its impenetrable state;
she held the stone before her heart
and begged for transformation,
seeking to ward off the pain
of humanity’s creation,
but then aware that stony souls
to never love were bound,
she sighed in deep frustration
and put temptation down.
An Evening with Emily, 054
It sounded as if the streets were running,
And then the streets stood still.
Eclipse was all we could see at the window,
And awe was all we could feel. [ED]
A crack of lightning broke the sky
and thunder roared upon my ears,
the growing darkness of the day
gave nurture to all primal fears;
the sun had fled in panic
at the power of the storm,
it left no light to comfort,
no light to keep us warm.
Pitch black the world became,
as if a curtain had been drawn
and all beyond its purview
would forevermore be gone,
and we who walked in flooded streets
were doomed to know no more
the loving breath of gentle winds
upon our wave-scoured shore;
a city drowned in angry waves,
its broken body lashed and raw,
came face to face with Nature
and could only gaze in awe.
An Evening with Emily, 055
The robin is the one
That interrupts the morn
With hurried, few, express reports
When March is scarcely on.[ED]
A dreary Winter beckons,
her fingers glazed with ice,
November at the doorstep
so eager to suffice
demands of northern winds
that blow to push us down,
to make us feel the shiver
of snow upon the ground.
The months of darkness hang
like curtains blocking light,
and days are drenched in gloom
that celebrates the night,
and in that endless season
I mark time to hear again
the sound of robins singing
in March’s vibrant rain.
An Evening with Emily, 056
Frequently the woods are pink,
Frequently are brown;
Frequently the hills undress
Behind my native town. [ED]
The trees are naked now,
vulnerable to Winter’s chill,
their crowns of spreading leaves
lie broken on the ground,
once regal in their splendour
as Summer’s sun burned high,
their branches hanging heavy
and waving in the wind unbound;
too short the season lasted,
like our brightest dreams of love,
here to bless us just one moment,
then abdicating with the dawn,
giving way to somber skies
that promise only clouded days,
the darkness that usurps my soul
and tells me that all hope has gone.
An Evening with Emily, 057
Where ships of purple gently toss
On seas of daffodil,
Fantastic sailors mingle,
And then – the wharf is still. [ED]
We lingered for the sunset,
dear Emily and I,
delighting in the beauty
of that summer sky,
a violet hue descended
upon the harbour still,
no breeze to ruffle waters,
no linen sails to fill;
empty was the ancient wharf –
just Emily and I
sitting with ships fast asleep
that long ago July,
across the ages sharing
an uneventful eve,
both reluctant to arise,
so hesitant to leave;
I closed my book in sorrow
to push my friend away,
and gave my soul to night,
despairing of the day.
An Evening with Emily, 058
Blazing in gold and quenching in purple,
Leaping like leopards to the sky,
Then at the feet of the old horizon
Laying her spotted face, to die [ED]
The days are growing shorter,
tardy comes the break of dawn,
and soon the twilight hastens
until all light is quickly gone;
December with its darkness
calls our torpid souls to sleep,
turning Winter’s wrath upon us
as if a leopard were to leap,
and clawing at our spirits,
condemn us all to icy death
as the time of endless cold
tries to silence our last breath;
but deep inside the bulwark
where softly lie discarded dreams,
a fragile flame of life renewed
awaits the Springtime’s golden beams.
An Evening with Emily, 059
As imperceptibly as grief
The summer lapsed away,
Too imperceptible, at last,
To seem like perfidy.
……………………….
The dusk drew earlier in,
The morning foreign shone,
A courteous, yet harrowing grace,
A guest who would be gone. [ED]
A visitor too swift to leave,
like dew upon the grass,
to come in haste one moment,
then just as quickly pass
as if another journey,
or a more important task
were calling her to come,
departing much too fast;
I barely saw her visage,
the sunlight in her face,
how she brought new beauty
to my dour ill-fashioned place
before the winds blew wild
and carried her away,
my beloved guest has flown
while I, in sorrow, stay.
An Evening with Emily, 060
Besides the autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of snow
And that side of the haze
…………………………
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear! [ED]
Seasons in transition,
November at its end,
the winds of winter gather
their chilling gales to send,
banishing the sun’s face
for many months to come,
blowing hard across the bay
until God’s will be done.
The beasts of summer slumber
in nests below the ground,
the fruits of autumn’s harvest
lie gathered all around;
perhaps a single squirrel
will dare to face the storm,
but I am much the weaker
in my fragile mortal form.
Yet gazing out the window
at trees now stripped and bare,
I contemplate Eternity
within my fire-fed lair,
and treasure as if golden
the memory of days
when life was briefly spent
between the snow and haze.
An Evening with Emily, 061
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody too?
Then there’s a pair of us – don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know. [ED]
The disposable woman
is immune from all pain,
you can throw her aside
for her loss is your gain,
her voice will be muted
and no tears will you see,
who cares for a person
you never will need?
Her memory will fade
along with her name,
the life that she lived
to you was a game,
and nobody will care,
or even ask why
your words slashed her soul
and left it to die.
An Evening with Emily, 062
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain,
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again. [ED]
A single flake of falling snow
touched soft my window sill,
the cold of winter’s onslaught
my vacant heart did fill,
a herald of the coming dark
as seasons make their round,
the vivid coat of autumn leaves
now nowhere to be found;
I watched the snowflakes gather,
a blinding storm so soon to come,
when all the world would vanish
till winter’s hoary work be done,
and I, alone, to sit and mourn
the loss of hill and plain,
and keep my solitary watch
till Nature’s face be seen again.
An Evening with Emily, 063
Let down the bars, O Death!
The tired flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat,
Whose wandering is done.
Thine is the stillest night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told [ED]
We have no fear of Death,
dear Emily and I,
accepting that to live
must also mean to die;
“forever” is a myth
embraced by those afraid
to close their weary eyes
and let go Life’s parade.
The loving arms of Death
will one day hold us all,
what point to hide away
in fear of His soft call?
When wandering is done
and hearts replete with Life,
what grace to find release
from sorrow and from strife;
so mourn me not as lost
but send me on my way,
for when time comes to leave
my love with you shall stay.
An Evening with Emily, 064
At least to pray is left, is left,
O Jesus! in the air
I know not which thy chamber is –
I’m knocking everywhere.
Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,
And maelstrom in the sea;
Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,
Hast thou no arm for me? [ED]
Sunday in the village,
church bells pealing clear,
calling all God’s children
to come and gather there,
to worship at the altar
with burdened hearts at peace,
mortal troubles set aside
to garner Christ’s release.
But in the deep around them –
the deep that gave them grace –
the earth that once seemed solid
shuddered at a brutal pace,
and waves of height unwonted
spread out across the sea,
quick to lash out at the shores
with havoc none could flee.
The maelstrom of the waves
engulfed the church and town,
dooming those who came to pray
to see their children drown,
to find their loved ones missing
and raise their tortured cry –
where was God this morning,
did Jesus watch on high?
[December 26, 2004]
An Evening with Emily, 065
The only ghost I ever saw
Was dressed in mechlin – so;
He wore no sandal on his foot,
And stepped like flakes of snow.
His gait was soundless, like the bird,
But rapid, like the roe;
His fashions, quaint, mosaic,
Or, haply, mistletoe. [ED]
The house, they said, was haunted,
the ghost was dressed in white
and stood not far from Emily’s bed
that cold and desperate night,
when Morpheus would not agree
to take her in his languid arms,
but left her there, to lie alone,
withdrawn from his alluring balm.
The ghost sat down beside her
as if weary from some task,
its face hid all expression
beneath a reveller’s mask,
but its voice revealed the pain
that caused it to appear,
a low and mournful groan
that whispered in her ear:
“ I am what you will be,” it said,
“as each year darkly passes by,
‘tis time for you to live and love,
to drink the wine before you die.”
Then, as if to spark her soul
and make the life-force stir,
the mask fell off to show
a face the same as hers.
An Evening with Emily, 066
A book I have, a friend gave,
Whose pencil, here and there,
Had notched the place that pleased him –
At rest his fingers are.
Now, when I read, I read not,
For interrupting tears
Obliterate the etchings
Too costly for repairs. [ED]
Tokens of affection
I never hoped to get,
the reaching out of hands
from those I never met,
a book from far away
or music for my ears,
how powerful a gift,
to stop the flow of tears.
Creatures softly crafted
to please my eager touch,
inanimate of spirit
but giving me so much –
love beyond all limit,
to last as Time flies by
and bind my heart to theirs
until that last goodbye.
An Evening with Emily, 067
Her final summer was it,
And yet we guessed it not;
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded her, we thought
A further force of life
Developed from within –
When Death lit all the shortness up,
And made the hurry plain. [ED]
The garden that she planted
burst forth in daffodils,
tulips pink and wine-dark
rose up as Nature trilled
sweet songs of endless summer,
and all of us, enchanted,
admired her much-loved child:
the garden that she planted.
But that summer was the last
to watch her in the field,
coaxing from the rocky earth
a flower-laden yield,
to hear her laughter resonate
as the hyacinths grew fast,
how full of life she seemed —
but that summer was the last.
How we played in childish bliss,
ensconced in her embrace
and, thinking her immortal,
saw not the pain upon her face,
felt not the sense of urgency
bestowed in every kiss,
until the day she went away –
how we played in childish bliss.
An Evening with Emily, 068
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place. [ED]
A presence insubstantial
softly walks within my brain,
infecting every corridor
with silent, unseen pain,
a ghost condemned forever
to roam so small a place,
with only I to know it lives
and only I to see its face.
At night I hear it whisper,
in dreams it calls my name,
a solitary, howling beast
that I shall never tame,
but suffer its encroachment,
my spirit in its sway,
destined to become as one –
the hunter and the prey.
An Evening with Emily, 069
A long sleep, a famous sleep,
That makes no show for dawn
By stretch of limb or stir of lid,
An independent one. [ED]
The god of sleep is tardy
as I wait for him each night,
in bed behind the curtains
that banish lingering light,
my eyes shut fast in yearning
for oblivion from life,
in search of silent darkness
to release my soul from strife.
The infant in her cradle
knows not such desperate need,
kind sleep is the companion
who arrives with flying steed
and offers her asylum
from daytime’s anxious calls,
a nightly visitation
as every twilight falls.
But I am left to wonder
what anodyne is needed
to ensure that famous sleep
for which the poet pleaded,
and why my limbs are tossing
like abandoned skiffs at sea,
waiting for a helmsman’s hand
setting sail for sleep’s lost lee.
An Evening with Emily, 070
Great streets of silence led away
To neighborhoods of pause;
Here was no notice, no dissent,
No universe, no laws. [ED]
A void of nothing claimed the world,
a growing darkness without sound,
no universe to light my path,
no flaming suns to wheel around;
laws of physics now suspended
as silence filled the cosmic sphere,
no up or down, no left or right,
no rudder for my soul to steer,
but lost amid the frozen void
I felt the glow of one pure heart,
and prayed that in this dying world
it would not hasten to depart,
but pause in solace by my side
until existence ceased to be,
so even in that endless dark
its love would stay to comfort me.
An Evening with Emily, 071
Heaven is what I cannot reach!
The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopeless hang,
That ‘heaven’ is, to me. [ED]
To reach beyond what I can grasp
and fashion dreams of silken weave,
to hold sweet joy within my heart
and know that it will never leave –
what heaven lives within my mind,
what paradise I may await
if only I could vanquish fear
that darkness is my destined fate,
and grab at life as if a jewel
that glitters for my eyes alone,
a golden ring not seen before,
adorned with every precious stone;
but even when I wake in pain
at dreaming things that cannot be,
I touch your face in gratitude
that heaven sent your love to me.
An Evening with Emily, 072
Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat –
You must have walked –
How out of breath you are! [ED]
A visitor long last had come
to offer me a glimpse of spring,
not yet the cold was blown away,
not yet heard I the robin sing;
still, the sun rose ever higher,
the winds no longer blew as wild --
March at ease upon my doorstep
gave courage to this winter child,
the hope that dark and dreary days
might now give way to warming light,
if only for a day or two
as gentle spring comes into sight;
sweet March, I welcome you in joy,
a harbinger of days to come,
when life returns unto the land
and freely captive rivers run.
An Evening with Emily, 073
A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day. [ED]
Words I hesitate to speak
wait, longing for release,
fearing not that utterance
will cause their lives to cease,
but rather that new freedom
will wing them on their way,
touching hearts in comfort
at what they have to say.
And yet I hold them captive
lest all my thoughts escape,
pealing off that shroud of iron
which silence strives to make –
such traitors lie within me
to speak what should be hidden,
but well my mind perceives
some words must be forbidden.
An Evening with Emily, 074
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell. [ED]
To say goodbye and step away,
to take one final glance behind
and look back upon a union
I had never hoped to find,
to see your face in shadows
as death’s curtain slowly falls,
and entomb our living passion
behind impermeable walls –
it matters not if heaven waits
and choirs of gentle angels sing,
parting from the one I love
can only grief and sorrow bring;
and yet I know the day will come
when you and I must say farewell,
so let us make our heaven here
before our hearts encounter hell.
An Evening with Emily, 075
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry. [ED]
In my imagination
I am travelling far away,
lands I never will explore
come to me on each new day,
islands flowering in sunshine,
mountains soaring far on high –
how ecstatic to reach out
and see my hand caress the sky.
Each page becomes a vessel
on which I cross the sea,
no exotic destination
can remain apart from me,
for books are kind companions
when imprisoned long at home,
and in my imagination
I set my spirit free to roam.
An Evening with Emily, 076
Who has not found the heaven below
Will fail of it above,
God’s residence is next to mine,
His furniture is love. [ED]
I cannot wait for Heaven
in search of pain’s release,
no angel from on high
can give my spirit peace,
my heart discovers solace
down here, among the pines,
God’s residence resplendent
where rivers slowly wind,
where sun upon my face
creates a resurrection,
where in the sea at rest
I gaze on His reflection;
so close to me this heaven
that many fail to see,
embracing us each day
as you lie next to me.
An Evening with Emily, 077
Are friends delight or pain?
Could bounty but remain
Riches were good.
But if they only stay
Bolder to fly away,
Riches are sad. [ED]
Emily wrote, alone in her room,
her letters to the world outside,
no arms stood near to comfort her,
for friendship was a task untried;
mindful of the risks of love,
afraid delight might turn to pain,
she made her heart a fortress
where no companion could remain.
Emily cried, alone in her room,
rejecting a bounty of friends,
talking instead to windows and walls
in monologues never to end;
if only someone had entered
to show her the riches nearby –
friends who are there in the laughter,
and there when tears must be dried.
An Evening with Emily, 078
I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size. [ED]
Grief met me on the street one day,
garbed in black and moving slow,
I tried my best to walk away
but knew not whither I should go;
so, standing firm before him,
I braced my legs to bear the weight
of yet another sorrow come,
yet another blow from Fate.
Perhaps this one would flutter by
and stay with me but for a while,
then release my heart from bondage
as Grief walked on a further mile,
or perhaps this one would linger,
torment me with unyielding woe,
take delight in leaving me
reeling from its heavy blow.
Each Grief I meet bears witness
to sorrows of uncertain size,
ever looming close to us,
immune to analytic eyes.
An Evening with Emily, 079
I had a daily bliss
I half indifferent viewed,
Till sudden I perceived it stir –
It grew as I pursued,
Till when, around a crag,
It wasted from my sight,
Enlarged beyond my utmost scope,
I learned its sweetness right. [ED]
To take sweet love for granted
and assume its presence ever—
such flimsy bliss we mortals take
in ties that death must sever;
we turn our backs upon today
to dream of what is yet to come –
lost the unacknowledged joy
within the day that now is done.
The future may exist, or not,
our loves perhaps we will sustain,
but certainty eludes our minds
that fickle time indeed remains;
this day I shall consume in love
with no care for tomorrow,
and if the world should end tonight
my soul will feel no sorrow.
An Evening with Emily, 080
The brain is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside. [ED]
She sat in the corner with a book,
a cup of coffee steaming by her side,
lost herself in pages filled with words,
tales infused with love and hate and pride,
and her real-life world ceased to exist
as another realm engaged her brain –
that organ of imagination
able to transcend both sky and plain,
to take us where we never were
and show us things we will never see –
how great a hidden universe resides
within the minds a book sets free.
She sat in blissful contemplation,
alone within her cloistered nook,
a slave who finds emancipation
in the union of a brain and book.
An Evening with Emily, 081
The past is such a curious creature,
To look her in the face
A transport may reward us,
Or a disgrace. [ED]
Looking back upon the past
with eyes that know today,
if I were but an actor
what scenes I would replay,
to speak a different word
or walk a different road,
abolish every error,
set down my spirit’s load.
But love befell me yesterday
and that I would not alter,
its strength, become a pillar,
forbade my heart to falter,
and even if I went astray
in mists made of the mind,
that love did ever pull me back,
my destined path to find.
An Evening with Emily, 082
You cannot put a fire out;
A thing that can ignite
Can go itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night. [ED]
How disappointment simmers,
a flame that burns not bright
but fuels the sadness of the soul
on long and angry winter nights;
the fool alone builds castles
with wood that turns to ash,
and sees the wreckage of his life
left behind by fire’s crazed lash.
Far better to encase your heart
with walls well built of stone –
no torment then inflames your mind
when all you love has flown,
when even on the calmest night
as stars burst forth in splendour,
you lay aside your youthful dreams
and all your hopes surrender.
An Evening with Emily, 083
Love is anterior to life,
Posterior to death,
Initial of creation, and
The exponent of breath. [ED]
Emily behind her curtains,
hiding from the light of day,
felt her heart on fire with love
destined to be cast away,
yet saw beneath her torment
how love transcended everything –
anterior to life itself,
surviving even Death’s fierce sting.
Our bodies crumble into dust,
victims of the mortal flaw,
doomed to pass away from life
into Earth’s voracious maw;
but flesh is just an overcoat
to warm us for a season,
while love exists eternally,
a force beyond all reason,
strong enough to penetrate
a soul in thrall to solitude,
pushing through those silent rooms
where nothing else would dare intrude.
An Evening with Emily, 084
Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light. [ED]
Her heart would never listen,
so stubborn in its need
to drink a draft of love
before Time could recede,
to know the warming light
before cold darkness came,
and take a fleeting chance
to play love’s risky game.
For if it won the contest,
what treasures lay at hand –
a journey without limit
across a golden land;
and if defeat befell it,
love lost and flown away –
at least it would remember
the bliss of yesterday;
and so her heart rejected
sad pleas to not recall,
rejoicing in the passion
that held it fast in thrall.
An Evening with Emily, 085
Not with a club the heart is broken,
Nor with a stone. [ED]
Perhaps she loved them all too much
and gave her heart too easily,
a butterfly on silken wings
who yearned for love so secretly,
who soared each day in wonderment
at every bud’s unsheathing,
so unaware that Time decreed
fragile flowers soon be leaving;
for petals fall before the dawn
as night steals forth to stake his claim,
gone the glory of the grasslands,
all life withdrawn from summer’s flame;
but still she flew on silent wings
towards the meadow’s final flower –
a heart unscathed by stones or clubs
would die of love within the hour.
An Evening with Emily, 086
This world is not conclusion;
A sequel stands beyond,
Invisible, as music,
But positive, as sound. [ED]
This world has been my fortress,
the only mount on which to stand
and watch wide rivers flowing
or smell sweet flowers on the land;
remove me from this citadel,
rip my heart away from here –
dare I believe that paradise
stands open to me elsewhere?
Persuade me, dearest Emily,
before despair becomes too strong
and I lose all hope of finding
another home where I belong,
for what I love is grounded here,
created by the earth and sea –
to dream of sequels in the sky
perhaps demands too much of me.
An Evening with Emily, 087
A sepal, petal, and thorn
Upon a common summer’s morn,
A flash of dew, a bee or two,
A breeze
A caper in the trees,
And I’m a rose! [ED]
Two roses grew so far apart,
yet in a meadow shared,
unknowing of each other
what loneliness they feared,
ever reaching heavenward
in dwindling expectation
of any love to treasure,
of any delectation,
until a stranger passing by
released them from the ground,
placing both within his hand,
and so each flower found
the soul-mate it had longed for
no longer far away,
and evermore to cherish
until the close of day.
An Evening with Emily, 088
What mystery pervades a well –
The water lives so far,
Like neighbor from another world
Residing in a jar. [ED]
Looking down a darkened shaft
in search of water’s gleam –
perhaps she did this yesterday,
perhaps it was a dream,
the mystery will not resolve,
the questions must remain:
how did that darkness flash with light,
whence came this sudden flame?
Was this water but a mirror
reflecting stars that live on high?
Or did the spark of life expire,
her time now come to die?
To read that omen in the well
a diviner need be found,
a soul apart from heaven,
and well removed from ground,
a seer who could reveal at last
what Fate did now portend,
but only she stood by the well,
bereft of every friend.
So she took the coin she held
and cast it far below,
an offering to Charon
in hope that she might go
to where the water travelled,
by paths as yet unknown,
and set her feet in ocean,
to know that she was home.
An Evening with Emily, 089
The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below. [ED]
The harvest moon is perfect,
all blemishes fading from sight,
and gladly she forgets her scars
touched by such radiant light;
no craters speak of destruction
as lovers bask in her glow,
gone the cosmic bombardment,
that savage blow after blow.
But the human heart remembers
the scars inflicted by life,
no mortal soul remains untouched
by weapons of pervasive strife;
so when the day at last arrives
to tear away my cratered mask,
will you still love the face you see –
the question I tremble to ask.
An Evening with Emily, 090
We learn in the retreating
How vast a one
Was recently among us,
A perished sun
Endears in the departure
How doubly more
Than all the golden presence
It was before. [ED]
Taken for granted, always there
to vanquish my tears with a smile,
like a sun that lights up the sky
and banishes fear for a while;
her love was a beacon of hope
for those who were lost in despair,
whose lives were beset by darkness
that seemed to extend everywhere.
Too little I knew of the pain
devouring her flesh from within,
a cancer growing in silence,
kept hidden, but destined to win,
to remove this sun from my world,
this presence more treasured than gold,
and now that her flame has gone out
I mourn in a night ever cold.
An Evening with Emily, 091
It struck me every day,
The lightning was as new
As if the cloud that instant slit
And let the fire through. [ED]
Days of clouds and thunder
expel the sun from sight,
as winds roar from the north
to hasten summer’s night –
elements in battle
portend the coming storm,
trees bow down in terror,
their branches bent and torn.
But yet another power
intrudes upon my eyes:
bolts of fire descending
through malevolent skies
to set the earth aflame,
remorseless in its wrath,
on those upon the land
it burns a deadly path,
and though I try to flee
the blow it aims my way,
it penetrates my mind
and comes within, to stay.
An Evening with Emily, 092
Each that we lose takes part of us;
A crescent still abides,
Which like the moon, some turbid night,
Is summoned by the tides. [ED]
Each soul that takes its leave of me
to make its journey into night
aligns me with a waning moon
that grieves the growing lack of light
and longs to feel the warmth of sun
transform its coldness into fire,
the waxing moon to rise again
and with the stars in life conspire.
Each soul that takes a part of me
companion on that final run
reminds my heart of mortal pain -
that love is lost, though just begun,
but what a barren moon abides
should no love come to it at all,
and so I give my soul to you
till summoned by the tidal call.
An Evening with Emily, 093
She laid her docile crescent down,
And this mechanic stone
Still states, to dates that have forgot,
The news that she is gone. [ED]
I would not be afraid of death
if those who mourned survived,
at peace to set me in the grave,
their spirits to revive,
to laugh again in summer sun,
to bear dark winter’s blow
and see the flowers rise in spring
where I lay down below.
But if my passing brought them pain
that seasons could not heal,
what sorrow would my soul endure,
what torment would I feel
to cast a shadow on the hearts
I could not bear to cloud,
then death would have its victory,
my passing be not proud.
An Evening with Emily, 094
They say that time assuages –
Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens
As sinews do with age.
Time is a test of trouble,
But not a remedy,
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no malady. [ED]
We sat together by her grave,
sad Emily and I,
no wind did stir the willows,
no cloud obscured the sky,
all Nature seemed oblivious
to suffering and sorrow,
as if the dead entombed below
would rise again tomorrow.
The only one she ever loved
had joined the heavenly choir
and lost the pain of mortal flesh,
absolved from all desire,
for born again beside the Lord
she heard the angels’ voices,
and now forever in their midst
her heart, fulfilled, rejoices.
Yet Time remained for Emily
to reflect upon the past,
and try to cure the malady
that far too long did last,
but all in vain she struggled
to keep her passion hidden,
and so she wrote upon the stone
“to love her was forbidden.”
An Evening with Emily, 095
We never know we go – when we are going
We jest and shut the door;
Fate following behind us bolts it,
And we accost no more. [ED]
If I knew when I was leaving
I would put on my finest face,
erase the scars bequeathed by life
with flowing veils of whitest lace,
and then I would extend my hand
towards the hearts I love so much,
a last attempt to heal all wounds
by grace of one departing touch.
But Fate denies that final act –
that brief farewell before the night –
and walks behind in grim disguise,
each step removing us from light,
a shepherd prodding us along
the path laid down by destiny,
and so I say no fond goodbye,
but pray that you remember me.
An Evening with Emily, 096
Water is taught by thirst;
Land, by oceans passed;
Transport, by throe;
Peace, by its battles told;
Love, by memorial mould;
Birds, by the snow. [ED]
When she was here I dallied,
knowing neither thirst nor woe,
I had no thought for battles,
no concern for falling snow;
my days were spent like pennies
flowing from my childish hands,
I took each one for granted –
no vast ocean blocked my land.
When she was gone I travelled
through dark realms undreamed before,
no flowers lined the pathway
swiftly leading to the shore,
and the sea brought forth a thirst,
seeking haven from the frost
that came to chill existence –
for I knew that she was lost.
An Evening with Emily, 097
Sweet hours have perished here;
This is a mighty room;
Within its precincts hopes have played –
Now shadows in the tomb. [ED]
The house once lit by chandeliers
now echoes hollow in the dark,
no sound of human voice within,
no living hand to leave a mark;
sweet hours of yesterday are gone
with those who now lie in the grave –
for wood and stone make not a room,
but hearts that love in passion brave;
long perished now their soaring dreams
as if they never did exist –
long lost the passion of embrace,
long lost the rapture of a kiss.
What lingers here are memories,
frail shadows left behind by Fate,
reminders that, in finite Time,
we must not learn to love too late.
An Evening with Emily, 098
That I did always love,
I bring thee proof:
That till I loved
I did not love enough.
That I shall love always,
I offer thee
That love is life,
And life hath immortality. [ED]
If love alone could save my soul
I would be freed from fear of death,
a paradise within your arms
to long survive my final breath;
if love alone were all I had,
my lack of wealth would matter not,
for all I need lies in your eyes –
a web in which my soul is caught.
That I shall ever give you love
I promise with a heart content,
immune to pain in your embrace,
its dread of loneliness now spent;
that I shall ever be with you
despite the death that comes to me –
what greater proof that love is life,
and life has immortality.
An Evening with Emily, 099
Far from love the Heavenly Father
Leads the chosen child;
Oftener through realm of briar
Than the meadow mild,
Oftener by the claw of dragon
Than the hand of friend,
Guides the little one predestined
To the native land. [ED]
To be the chosen child,
to walk the realm of briar
brings naught but pain to one
burned by the dragon’s fire;
far from love to wander,
with hollowness of heart,
never understanding
the reason to depart.
Abandoned to the fate
predestined at her birth,
she screams into the void
and questions her own worth,
feels despair run rampant –
a spectre without form –
yearns to solve the riddle:
to know why she was born.
An Evening with Emily, 100
Emily wrote this about a writer, and it seems a fitting end to what I have tried to do here.
Charlotte Bronte’s Grave
All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of “Currer Bell”,
In quiet Haworth laid. [ED]
The headstone told its tale to me,
a poet rested at my feet,
a bard in quest of healing love
but sentenced to a dark retreat;
in life she dressed in blackest garb,
as if in mourning for the lost,
and crying out with pen in hand
lamented all that living cost –
the broken dreams, the haunted nights,
the terror of a life misspent,
how Time had passed her on his way
to places where she never went;
encased within her silent walls,
a prisoner bound by chains unseen,
afraid to leave, afraid to stay,
her heart a captive in between,
and I, a witness to such grief,
her book a dagger in my hand,
shed tears for one I never knew,
a stranger in a foreign land,
and prayed to any God on high
to grant her rest in wide domain,
at peace for all eternity,
set free at last from earthly pain.
FINIS: The Emily Collection is complete.
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