Poems Blog by Holly
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Holly's blog: "Poems"

created on 01/08/2007  |  http://fubar.com/poems/b42398
It was evening and the ghosts were gathered there. Ghosts are called by a longing for the shadows of thier past,and a mountain made of memory holds these shadows fast. Memories are not simple things,they are complicated things,and within a heart of a ghost,a memory can become another's dream.These dreams are most important as time passes,the dream becomes a reality and the ghost won't last. These ghosts will march one last time.They will not come with muffled drums,nor shuffling feet,but as they were,to take thier final seat. Until the last ghost marches in,there will be ghosts upon the street.
--Do you love? I can hear that voice in my head..Sometimes,I hear it in my dreams.(my cherished sleep) "YES!" I scream..then I plead with a trembling voice,"yes" --But,the voice remains somber and cold. "True love never dies... --Do you love?" I wake,my guts in my throat.my head reels with the thud of my heart.Awake or asleep;yes,I know love.. --But,do you love?.. --Do you love. The smell of roses is the breath of that voice.. The smell of dead October roses..
The new moon sprinkles dimonds down upon the sleeping water. Fog lazily rolls in from the hills as a blanket may tuck in a babe The eagle safely tucks her young under a wing Wind rustles the leaves,and gentally rocks the trees Far away,a wolf sings to the moon The new babes cry simmers as sweet dreams fly Shivers go straight down the spine Wet air comes flooding in like a hurricane Silence is like an enemy,but we seem to find peace, and bats come out to play Gracefully take a line upon your cheek make a wish to the glistening lights They dance in the velvet of night Close those tiered old eyes and say good night
I could tell you that dying is an art, An art I am learning fast. I could tell you so many things, but I better not. In that school,I think you have picked up your pencil to learn what books teach you..I think I like that. Maybe,between now and the eventual then,we could play. We will drive to fruit street,and park under the falling rain of color,found on leaves of October. The wind will rake them,and we will plunge in, falling together. We will stare at the creatures made of cotton, that lays against a blue canves that is ever changing its faces. I could tell you that life is not that sweet, and most pay a heavy price for mistakes. But,for now,we will play in this field of make-believe,and I will pretend that you will never feel the bitterness that is so close to your growing hands..

poem

If you are the sword, then I will be the shield that protects you. If you are the river, then I will be the bank to guide you. Yet... If you are the shield then I will be the sword that goes before you. If you are the bank then I will be the river that flows through you. And together,we will rise up your banner and proclaim your color in victory to honor you. For I am your allie in blood and with my blood,I bond thee to me.
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