POETRY

The Poet’s Pen Shall Sketch Tonight

Your image is before me as I pen these words tonight,

My ink engraves the contours of your breast,

The inkwell inspiration from the maid who won my heart,

Whose outline is my ever present guest.

My pen will keep a tryst tonight with Venus all in name,

The ink will flow from eyes and breast to thighs,

To write where’s crowned by navel, a sonnet or a rhyme,

My lyrics to a lover’s sweet reprise.

The poet’s heart is yours alone for poet’s dreams can see,

What lesser men shall ne’er be party to,

His pen will trace the faithful line of curves when naked free,

His heart-soul shapes the silhouette of you.

Allow my pen cascade tonight through maiden flowing hair,

From tummy crib to full and curving breast,

My pen to write the silhouette of clinging dress like vine,

Until the wee small hours when poets rest.

Christmas Eve. 2013

Michael Walsh

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Her Deep Love Eyes

The deepness of her eyes profound,

Were hidden depths from view,

Those eyes bewitched, fair game was I,

Her tears were clear as dew.

I failed to see what yet might be,

In eyes of rich sweet wine,

I knew not where, I knew not when,

Those deep loved eyes be mine.

No oceans deep by contrast keep,

The wellsprings to her thought,

That I might one day be her beau,

Or seeking be as nought?

A soul-bride is my lovelorn fate,

Her eyes a thoughtful void,

Those hidden depths I couldn’t find,

Where soul rests gentle coiled.

Reflective deep I stilled the hour,

In gaze an age past time,

To find the source of deep pure eyes,

A soul I knew sublime;

No distant star as far away,

As the depths of her love-filled eyes,

I feared to face an unwished for truth,

In the tomb where a shunned heart lies.

Michael (Walsh) December 16 / 17 2013

A Comet or a Star

Perhaps you’ll be a comet, perchance an Eastern star,
A star is there forever but a comet leaves ajar,
The door of maybe, which way, whatever path you choose,
Will you be true or passing, the comet that I lose?

The siren voices call you, the tug of heartstrings strain,
Whatever will seduce you, whatever will remain,
My humble benefactor or the feet at which I weep,
A comet or a star then death when I shall gentle sleep.

Other spheres, other dreams, the judgement of the stars.
But star or comet you remain precisely what you are,
Win or lose, Fate will choose but you remain my bride,
The comet of my being but the star I choose for guide.

Michael Walsh

keyboardcosmetics@gmail.com

Will You be My Candle

Will you be the candle in the window every night,

The clock that silent ticks till midnight tolls,

Shimmer every candle on the cake that marks my years,

Your smiling face to wipe away the tears.

Will you be my sweet lament, the breast to lay my head,

Unhearing ears and lips that seal when unkind words are said;

A trifle blind when things unkind will shrink your heart anew,

That deaf and blind you’ll always be to spoken words untrue.

Will you be the pot of ink that fills my pen each night,

The quill that scratches penance words so true,

The pad upon I write my thoughts when soul shall have its say,

That I might better speak my thoughts to you.

Will you be the posy, the bouquet of my days,

The first rose of the summer, the last when autumn strays,

When winter brings the snowdrops, till crocus blue shall bloom,

Will you be my ever bride till church bells ring my doom.

Michael Walsh

29.11.2013

Once Bitter Foes

Companions now, once bitter foes,

Sleep together, friends,

Destiny and Fate conspired to bring to bitter ends.

Men who once were bitter foe,

Who struck to earth by mortal blow,

By men who they might never know,

But comrades once again.

In slumber how they gentle sleep,

In little beds of clay,

In darkness they will never know that it be night or day.

There’s joy tonight with men they slew,

For death has made men equal, true,

Sent to death by moneyed few,

But what a price they pay.

The old men with their shares in wars,

Will reap their just reward,

Reaper Grim has harvested the men who pay for wars.

Who profit from the young who bled,

Inspired by lies and foul words said,

With war machines investment fed,

There’s no re-birth for them.

Michael (Walsh) 07.12.13