POETRY

Her

There was beauty in her soul,

A bonding in her eyes,

An aura I was helpless to define,

The dream that drifts away as the dawn breaks every day,

So subtle like the vapours of the wine.

Such lips might blaze for passion,

And eyes embrace the soul,

Her bearing was her favour and her grace,

Could the answer be in me, that I alone could see,

What others never saw within her face.

Perhaps it was her inner peace,

That she not earthly be?

Her soul might never know a mortal flame,

Divine, she was mystique whom the gods alone could seek,

No man alive would tame this hurricane.

Michael Walsh Poetry: http://goo.gl/RPjs3f

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THE FIRST TO BE KISSED

Michael Walsh Poetry: http://goo.gl/RPjs3f

As the sun lights your face in the morning,

Then warmed by its sunbeams that spray,

You know you're the first to be welcomed,

To be kissed by the sun every day.

Before it can greet you next morning,

The sun must kiss others like you,

But you are the first every morning,

When the sun has its fill of the dew.

You will slumber tonight on your pillow,

While the sun never pauses to sleep;

It will go on its way while your dreaming,

For the sun has a date it must keep.

Once again it will kiss you at morning,

Your window unveils the sun's rise,

And you know you’re the first to be greeted,

Just as soon as you open your eyes.

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I WISH THAT I WERE FORTY

Michael Walsh Poetry: http://goo.gl/RPjs3f

I wish that I were forty, or even years more;

If every man was forty, there'd never be a war.

Old men can't know everything as all the young men do;

Perhaps this is the reason why the young men are so few.

I can't stop mothers caring, it is a mother's role,

As salmon will be instinct led to reach their spawning goal.

Young men are rash and reckless, pawns in old man's game,

As moths that go to happy death when drawn to flicker flame.

If wise men over forty years were ever called to war,

They'd turn their guns around and ask what are we dying for;

But youth is rarely prudent, young blood runs hot as fire,

Their blood the fuel that old men use to light their funeral pyre.

Michael Walsh Professional Writing Services

www.keyboardcosmetics.com

THE FACE IN THE CROWD

Michael Walsh Poetry: http://goo.gl/RPjs3f

The sun went down and the night came grey,

As I pulled the blinds on another day.

The chill was mine when I thought no more,

Of the face in the crowd I was looking for.

‘Twas a face I had seen from before you know;

A wraith-like form I once worshipped so.

A long-lost dream that I sought in vain;

A past life lived I now wished again.

A life for which I would give my soul;

In the church of my heart how that old bell tolled.

A love-life lost from the long ago,

When the Reaper called and she had to go.

For her face in the crowd I would search in vain,

Her face from the past to be seen again.

When my eyes and heart and my soul were one;

In their quest for a love that had been and gone.

It was a face that I knew but was lost to me;

On my soul engraved for my heart to see.

For my eyes to seek and my heart to yearn,

For my hopes to soar as I reached each turn.

When my eyes met yours in the crowd that night;

My soul danced free and my heart was light.

You had crossed the bridge from the long ago,

And your soul touched mine for I love you so.

Michael Walsh Professional Writing Services

www.keyboardcosmetics.com

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Break my Heart

Michael Walsh Poetry: http://goo.gl/RPjs3f

Break my heart if break my heart you must,

But still I love you, love is just.

It never judges, weeps or sighs.

True love lives and never dies.

Complete and fair, love knows not where,

Your famished heart will dream;

Follow where your spirit calls,

Think not of those whose hearts will fall.

Better still you find what’s best,

A place where kindred hearts can rest,

Where past is tender put to sleep,

Where dreams alone can gentle keep:

But still you slumber in my heart,

For love is evermore.

Michael Walsh Professional Writing Services

www.keyboardcosmetics.com

I Wonder

Michael Walsh Poetry: http://goo.gl/RPjs3f

I wonder what would happen if a cow was born today,

That couldn’t stomach grass or stand the smell of hay,

A dog that hated walkies, a cat that couldn’t purr;

It’s best to go to sleep, my lad,

No point in going there.

I wonder what would happen to a bird that couldn’t fly,

A fish that couldn’t swim to save its life.

A tiger born with spots or a drama without plots,

A congressman who couldn’t deal with strife.

If politicians didn’t lie, if bankers never steal,

If rich men knew how much it hurts to be a down at heel,

Would the world be better if conscience ruled the man…

It’s best to go to sleep, my lad,

And do your dreaming there.

Michael Walsh Professional Writing Services

www.keyboardcosmetics.com

Haunted by Those Final Words

Haunted by those final words, regrets I never said,
What good my words of sadness for my loved one who is dead?
When hasty words of anger are impassioned, God forbid,
Are hurtful words held captive underneath the coffin lid?

There’s not a lot to say to those who passed this way ahead.
Can I atone and wish harsh words were better left unsaid?
I dreamt that hearts had spoken, before it was too late,
But now what words of comfort when you’ve heard the knock of Fate?

My words of sweet repentance are in truth now said for self,
Strange the words of penitence bequeathed to me as wealth,
Sad I wish my sorrow could be heard and understood,
And peaceful you were sleeping ‘neath your little door of wood.

Michael Walsh Poetry: http://goo.gl/RPjs3f