Poetry for
People, Dragons
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Dead Man's Creek
Oh, to go back to
Dead man's Creek,
Where children play
in waters warm;
And all is green
where animals seek
Refuge from the
thunderstorm.
To play as
yesterday
In its pools of
translucent dew,
Where fish and
guppies swim as they may
Near banks awash
with many a shoe.
To play with a
child's delight
To swim in ponds
fed by mountain stream:
Of this I found in
nature a right
A kingdom of
innocence and mankind's dream.
To drink in pools
of chilly springs
Where Mr. Crawdad
jiggles and wiggles under his rock;
And periwinkles,
the strangest things,
Rest in the mud, a
twig they mock.
To have you see the
tunnel too,
Where the creek
will downstream flow,
'Neath that lonely
road the waters rush through,
Whilst that lonely
road streams to Idaho.
Drivers for a
moment see below
Children jumping
from heights of glee;
Fishing and
swimming in paradise aglow
With nothing on but
nudity.
Freedom
(1971)
To be what I've
dreamed of most,
To be free of this
material ghost;
It's holding me,
clinging to me.
Wretched though my
future be,
I pray my fate will
come along
Whispering gently
in September's Song.
No matter the worse
that yet may come,
I'll cherish a
change to leave this slum.
For a Cause without
Pittance
(1970)
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Painting by Maravot from the mid '60's |
My thoughts haunt
my inner self to the point of guilt;
I fear that without
putting them on paper nothing may be built,
While feeling at
once a moment of recrimination,
Denying myself the
pleasure of distinction
In not having
written something of worth.
For whom do I
convey these solemn words so few,
Given in type as
best as I do?
Is it that I write
to hear myself think,
To open myself to
myself so that a necessary link,
A knot in my soul,
may be opened?
Is it a pleasant
moment of satisfaction that I get
In having my soul
opened up showing an unpaid debt,
An obligation to
someone of something of cause unknown
To which my youth
has been dedicated and I have grown?
Or have I dedicated
myself to an early age of senility?
How can I give to
myself that which I have not?
Or how can others
give to me that which they know not?
How can I seek an
answer in a gift that has not been given,
In only those
things for which I know I have striven?
So who would hear
me?
My heart cries out
for the world to hear
Just a few words
that I hold so dear.
And if by chance
that I should be read,
I would hope that
my tears will have been shed
In a cause without
pittance.
What all should
know
(1971)
How often I wished
during a solemn night's rest,
Watching a
sensitive scene, a moment of compassion:
Hearing the soft,
touching words of love,
To be able to
express in words the thoughts and warmth
That envelops me
so.
How can I profess
my love for man,
My dreams, my
hopes, my understanding;
And how can I
transfer in words those enduring melodies
Of Tenderness, the
greatest works of an age;
And how can I
reflect in a mirror of unrest
Those moments of
worth which we ought to know?
And most of all,
how can I convey that which
Both you and I know
all should know?
San Francisco
(1971)
If there can be a
fairyland of night
Where nature
flowers her glitter
Through magic hills
twinkling with light,
Where merriment
rules hither and thither,
And the old and new
share a stage,
Torn from a fairy
tale, a Wonderland's page,
Then this I love
with all my might.
And if there is a
city so dear,
Which cherishes its
people and cuddles its lore,
To remain what it
is with not a fear,
Nor have any cause
to small to ignore,
Then this is the
place I'll stay,
Living a simple
life in the serenity of the Bay.
This, my love, is
San Francisco, my dear.
Life
(1971)
Have you heard the
leaves whisper sounds,
Creating a rustling
through the grounds,
A background
melody,
For all the things
which comfort thee?
Have you felt the
springtime air
Caress her fingers
through your hair?
Have you heard the
noisy life around?
Stamping out beauty
for you and me?
Have you listened
for awhile
And discovered
things beyond a mile?
Have you found
something new
Every time your ear
turns from away from you?
Or can you only
hear
A few sounds here
and there?
Have you missed
every living day
The sounds that
weren't very far away?
Or are you the one
stomping around,
Hurrying from mount
to mound,
Crashing through
thickets every day,
Crushing things
which are in your way?
Are you going so
fast you can never see
Or hear the things
which beg to comfort thee?
Stop just for
awhile
And put the living
things on trial.
Let them prove
you've missed a life
Which soothes the
restless and deplores the strife.
Listen each day for
something new
And honor the
things that bring life to you.
The Arc above my Soul
(1978)
Arcing high above
my soul
A rainbow grows
within the mist;
A pot of Gold, your
heart I stole,
Your tender
touches, each moment now missed.
Your brightness in
the morning's beam,
Traced a golden arc
across my breast;
The rainbow's
delight, my childhood dream,
Filled my heart as
you quietly dressed.
The caressing
moments and cheerful days,
Holding you, I'm
want to lose;
Our life crumbled
in many ways;
In the many options
we did not choose.
"Don't look back,"
they often say;
How often your
memory turns my way
And tumbles my
senses from head to toe.
For the want of
timing and things to be
This treasure's
given now to my memory;
But I for one shall
forever know
This Pot of Gold I
grip shall always glow;
And I for one shall
forever be
Owing more love
than I gave to thee.
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Launched 10.12.97;
updated 5.31.99; 5.27.2000; 3.16.05; 2.15.06;
5.29.14
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1964-2014 Maravot. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1964-2014 Mel Copeland. All rights
reserved.
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