Home Page Title - Novels & Poetry

In stone canyons we lounge in amble bliss,
while dwellers all around us muse in fantasies, less in realities.
Signals in, signals out,
tasks both manual and remote do we ensue to ease our grasp on life's purpose or intent.

Video screens to soothe our lack of stimulus, our intent to founder,
and so keenly we find our fulfillment in lack-luster idleness.
Catch-phrase words and sound-bite worthiness leads us onward,
as life recedes with parallels of universes not in sync.

Wild as life we boldly go where none before has been,
cast adrift on over-stuffed couches astride carpets of lush green.
Amply armed with ability to surf the web we press onward,
aware that the late hours are still to come as the images pass, flickering, fading.

Keyboards guide willfully sinning slackers while one and all we bow,
surrender, to web sites unnatural and spread across the world.
There we drift for hours lacking sustenance, activity, and stride,
as life around us falls in ill repair from lack of daily notice.

Dawn shoots warming colors across our screens,
and the call to work and the same old earthly challenges arise.
Wild as life we boldly go where all have been before,
and quickly doldrums settle into spaces where doldrums never were.

and others.

Life is like sand that shifts, lures and blows,
and time as like grains of sand become too endless to test.
While the seasons enlist a time to be valued,
of that which falls through our days.

To give us a meaning to the hours that meter our lives,
until we must reckon our worth and purpose.
Whether now just, or jest, jilted, or jaded,
these few sentiments must thus remain.

Here now we bear witness to the fault or the deed,
once done can not be put asunder.
Neither shadows cast, or the light of the past,
nor the tainted moment of its misspent deeds can ever fade.

Now we press our souls against the flowers of life's good earth,
to thus last taste the sweetness twice remembered.
There now we stay, until we slumber and dream but memories,
until life and the sands shift no more.

Patrick Nate

The days flow by not endlessly, but with measure, and while they do,
I indulge my interest in friends returned home.
Though life and time has placed them far from daily touch,
I for one still seek them out.

Our thoughts that graced our days from times now hidden,
we scurry about our busy lives hearing not the distant drums of conversations past.
We know not where the tides of life still sweep those who rode in our chariots of iron, boasted, toasted, laughed and electrified our youths now buried in tested memories.

Now we pass again on old ground, paths we strode together before, and yes, my friend, I know it has all changed, perhaps not for the better.
Faces of the old life and times, now wrinkled, leathered, strangers to our minds' image, and I for one think it is only the others who have aged, not I.

My passions remain young and enlightened, while witticisms have yet to fail me, and alas, the dusty ineptitude of those who find aged wisdom out of date seems many.
Sometimes I feel a great need to reach out to all who have gone before,
to hail them for their friendship; their past warmth having nurtured my very soul.

A friend has come home, seeing our old haunts through eyes focused far away, while I am wishing he would have stopped for tea each eve through all those years gone by.
I'd rather not have missed him as we've lived from day-to-day, so if I talk too much or say too little, I hope he will understand I think he is grand.

When last I sat in darkness and thought about my friends of seasons long finished,
not one appeared commensurate with colleagues I thus share these strained times.
If adventures in life lent woe, and subsisting seemed harsh and drab,
old friends would proceed to see me through my longest, darkest hours.

Selfless acts of compassion with naught for reward but love for friend,
while each had put aside their own deficits to see me through the fray.
Not one complained, nor questioned how I came that way,
while instead offered up a steady hand and a kindly word to lend their inner-strengths.

As affairs improved those compeers were first to step aside,
and let the standard road of vital intellect draw up its ebb and flow.
They never said, 'I told you so,' nor trampled upon my honor,
but in their stead, went on with living to bequest a sure boulevard to most normal of occasions.

In best of times we collected 'round to share the night to speak of life's great mysteries,
and test whether one great writer, or some interim knew the tricks of it all.
Long through the eve we pondered with profound statements flying thus,
each wishing to find the key of knowledge left by mentors so grand.

Later on we'd pack it in, retiring to some all night eatery, noisy, boisterous,
professing all around carried on in ignorance, while we espoused the truths of life.
When our final cups of coffee were cooled as dawn arose, the last debate not settled,
we'd stop and look upon our friends and know that those days were life lived at its best.

Patrick Nate

Each step, every breath along the way, it is you I am seeking,
where old grief lingers in dusty corners.
Neither sunset, nor lushly painted dawns that arise and vanish,
East of the sun, West of the moon, will lead me to you.

The path winds far and wide, the chasm now great, the pit too deep,
a lair where old wounds still fester in darkness.
The taste of our honey is now bland, decayed in old summer jars,
with labels no longer legible, yellow and cracked with age.

Down the lanes of youth's adventures, we danced, until shadows stretched,
while calls from anxious mothers echoed across the glen.
In our lover's lair of damp grasses, we listened, sharing one last kiss,
and then you, my fawn, would leap away, me seeing your radiance in last light.

Restlessly, I would toss through the blackness of my nights, until dawn;
that sweet reprieve would find you hiding in those moist shards.
The sweetness of your youthful breath would tempt; draw me to your side,
and I would join you, sharing kisses once armed with passion, abandon.

On a warm summer's day, I waited and heard only the low of the beasts about me,
while cattle drove from stream to field, tramping down tender blooms you once culled.
I lull now in silence, head towards the paths we once journeyed in wanton passion, to share a secret lover's nest, East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

"The Dancer"
Copyright © 1996

Published in various anthologies

When sunset cast its vale of pastel pallets upon the birth of night,
the dancer sets in motion a willingness to find a lady to engage in blissful turning.
As when an itch arises, one does scratch, thus when a dancer's feet sense measure,
and the promises of night's hidden wonders, the ear is drawn ever closer to the beat.

The threshold is transited, the portal he journeys through is alluring in its promise,
while he absorbs the rhythms in his soul that guides him to the floor.
Intently he casts a glance about the room, soft light of hidden mystery now revealing,
as maiden's silhouettes shimmer against the pale light of the tables far removed.

In mid-stride he pauses, for there poses one so fair she seems a princess,
leaving him but the choice to seek her out to spin in harmony with the spell she prophesies.
Crystal-gazing fortune tellers would choose her as a prize of a nation,
as she is now thus revealed to him, and he desires her touch.

Slowly he moves toward her, their eyes briefly meet and she senses intimacy,
though his greatest gentlemanly forces are guiding him as he gains her to his side.
Without hesitation he begins to move with her across the crowded floor,
taking in her esters, the softness of her skin, the perfume of her hair.

Around they spin in musical ecstasy, time and motion held in check;
leaving only the dancer and his lover suspended, just the two.
The dancer's found the one to love and music is their expression,
binding them together to whirl till the dancing stops and the music fades away.

Patrick Nate

Saturday came and went in blissful warmth,
while all around remained green and laden with Indian Summer blooms.
Overhead I gazed in anticipation of gathering clouds puffed and fast moving,
and as sweat trickled 'round my ears I knew the faithful signs.

Nature was about to insert her due, setting my course anew;
pausing me this last warm, magnificent day to view her out-stretched hands.
Here her bounty remained; braced against the coming change,
while I continued to pretend the present radiant days would prevail.

It's not that I refused to accept the inevitable changes yet to come,
for the seasons march in lock step with life's events.
With precision the seasons, ticking off the years in stealthy sureness,
masked in lazy days of summer, hope of spring, reflections of fall, the dormancy of winter.

At days' end, I completed my tasks, packing my tools away with care,
and as darkness wrapped a cloak around the earth, still warm, fertile, I rested.
Silently, I reached down, touched Terra, feeling her pulse beneath me,
alive, now mocking summer's green and glow.

I stood, walked toward the friendly glow of the kitchen window,
on cue as I stepped upon the porch a fierce wind began, chilled by fields of ice so far away.
I turned to greet it; to accept the inevitable flight from such an eve,
then quickly ambled in the house to light a hearth against fall's first storm.

Just around the corner,
down near the bend where flowers are most fragrant,
she often walks late on summer's days.

There she strolls until twilight ebbs;
soft blue eyes glancing left to right,
catching all that life invites her to see.

Her body sways rhythmically to nature's intriguing tunes.
Shapely, soft, alluring, she walks on in silence,
stopping to touch a leaf, to stroke a puppy, to caress a child.

I step into the shadows as my eyes follow her movements,
poetry in view; evidence of life's greatest gifts strolls before me.
I stand frozen in time.

Mesmerized, hypnotized,
and tortured with desires to share her days with me alone is my secret wish.
I, selfishly inclined, wishing she would allow me her full interests and intent.

She will simply pass me by,
with thoughts and destinations of her own,
plans that never included this man, just around the corner.

I hold my gaze; her heavenly beauty presses the warmth,
love, and presence of her life's force longingly upon my soul.

Copyright © 1998

Patrick Nate

Last I viewed her here I stood, in soft light of summer's eve,
with debate not left to venture.
In solitude we pondered what link might still be shared, while clear waters coursed softly beneath our feet.

Upon a footpath bridge, we came together last,
as lovers re-coursing life's currents that swept us thus.
The hour grew late, until hope was cast away in haste,
and thoughts of sweet embrace when all before held purpose declined.

A hand, dainty, small and warm I last grasped,
until hearts began to ache in anticipation of remorse.
Blonde hair, soft as mist, silky and scented brushed my cheek,
as against my trembling chest she clung.

We walked away in darkness with notice to our steps,
for all that remained of hope of love grew silent.
Life's great dream of a perfect love grew dim,
and she receded from my view to see her nevermore.

"Last Kiss"
Copyright © 1996

Patrick Nate

As Published: Taken from "Summertide 1959" - A Novel by Patrick Nate

Remembrances of lips soft and supple pressed firm to mine,
while time stood still for an instant and life reflected perfection.
We pull back and engage in a lover's glance, eye-to-eye,
as hearts beat most rapidly and warmth of breast-to-breast brings peace.

Her breathing settles in on me like a fine mist and cloaks my thoughts;
now allowing nothing to pass between us unnoticed, our awareness thus enhanced.
The soft glow of candle light casts shadows and highlights around her,

and I take of her in, share her breath as none before, and none since.

As long ago we shared one last kiss, that unawares we would not share hence,
for life went on without us knowing the final clinging, two lovers sharing.
Time marched on as time and living must, but memories still linger,
of lips kissed by candle light, and breath shared chest-to-chest.

I took her cheeks between my hands and looked upon her face;
eyes riveted in repose, exchanging feelings that lovers only know.
While each believed that what we shared would live forever more,
I lovingly kissed her lips one last time to recall thus with longing through all my days.

"Lost Summer"
Copyright © 1998

Patrick Nate

At last it showed, summer in its wealth of bounty awarding lavish beauty,
where upon I gave my solicitudes and pleasures to its sights.
There amidst the flowering surge I waited for her, my maiden now flowered superb, while nature gave her darling display, and I was gifted with her dignity.

Clouds rounded, full of famous profiles for idle heads to contemplate while lying flat, peering at the heavens, until one knew them all.
Watchful eyes of new parents passed me by with pride laden glances toward their brood; as old men sat singularly on iron benches remembering former lovers and friends.

Airs of chicken frying on an open grill infected my senses, wishing I was sharing in the merriment and delectable fare that only summer brings.
Under the sun I linger, for here, I lost her, my maiden now in bloom, and I am intensely visited by the ghosts of pleasures past, salted with passions renewed again.

Here we came to share the summers, strolling in the park 'neath oaks of old, arm-in-arm together, nevermore to part, 'twas our simple pledge.
Now I wait through the lost summer, biding for an end to season and to deed, for she is not coming back, time has passed us by, and the days are long indeed.

while I in anticipation of events unknown did lend my attentions.

Query me not how I knew the truth in this calling, the voice,
her force known to me stored here upon my psyche these long years.
Out of the mist, veiled in clouds of pastel dreams the encounter,
sounding alive, warm with feelings of soft-spoken endearments she did thus touch me.

I trembled, wishing to respond in kind, reawakening that which welled within,

while with that sweet, sincere and lilting voice she did plead her case.
I arose from my bed and quickly gained view out my window,
hoping against all hope there she would be standing.

Much to my fascination the same pastel mist did reflect,
and there bleeding out of the haze, colored lights did dance.
Scarcely did I catch my breath when I saw with these very eyes,
now a couple dancing, young and in love as I strained to see their faces.

Down the stairs, I raced still knotting at my robe with nervous fingers,
and as I gained the door they gazed toward me, then kissed.
Out of the mist, they came, and into the fog, they vanished,
while still her voice is calling through to me, out of the mist of time.

"Old Men Need Love"
Copyright © 1996

Patrick Nate

It's been said that age and life become more golden as time passes,
though I've yet to find any pleasure in the hard, cold feel of metal, gold or other.
Nor in the aging, least we forget, of ordinary mortals such as you or me,
as we in our final days look back at the rue from whence we've come, gain any comfort.

It's been observed that in our youth we shared romance and love,
yes, and countless times I'm sure you'll soon recollect if honesty is your game.
Young lover's smiles shared without boundaries, in abundance hugs and caresses,
we as couples used up like commodities and sundries, saving little for these sparse times.

Companions in days gone by would press flesh-on-flesh, and in their passions,
with relish, blissfully nurturing, kissing, hugging and frolicking endlessly sharing love.
In good time we sense our aging, and at risk we mount a stand, take stock in the days;
it never seems to come home for notice until the timing's all wrong, or worse we're found alone.

It's been observed that not by blunder are most delivered to advanced stages of life,
to ponder with considerable risk the absence of their youth, tempered with a ray of wisdom.
Though wisdom fairly excites me, it substitutes not where a kiss finds warm, tender lips,
lips impassioned by youthful daring on a summer's eve in spring.

It's been observed that old men need love the same as in their youth,
for deep inside the souls of men are little more than boys of summer's spent.
For a moment love tempted young couples to taste of love in idle moments passed,
and I'd rather share a lover's kiss than possess all the golden years alone that I might yet bear.

The Refrain Is Still Played
Copyright © 1996

Patrick Nate

Sweetness twice remembered until at last we pause,
and know the refrain is still played from old love songs.
While the twilight fades from our youthful memories now cold,
and the cloak of age warms us before a blazing hearth.

In shadows, until we slumber and dream of that which is now but memories,
I hasten to my reverie to fetch a moment of youthful frolic.
There in vivid colors, friends and lovers pass or stay,
converse and share adventures surreal with supersensory involvement.

Startled by their proclivity, their propensity toward unseemly deeds,
I toss and turn and they ignore my pleas for decorum to return.
On they stray in lockstep, tramping and drifting into regrettable scenes,
revealed in clinging lust of flesh and body, mind and soul.

I awaken and sit for hours in the darkness trying to understand,
but I fail to see the worth of the illusion that drove me from repose.
There prior settled, I had risen to ponder my sleeping mind's adventures,
and though I bear those old friends no ill-will, they needn't have acted so.

In that present state I gazed out my window, watched as lights reflected off clouds,
and I remembered those friends and lovers who shared another day and time.
I smiled and thought of what they'd think if all that speculation were but true,
there revealed for all to see in living color, my wildest dreams, uncensored and raw.

The mind has its reveries, unchecked, unbiased in slumber where no censor ever lived, and I accept the challenge to give the mind its due course to entertain and exercise.
While I reserve the right to remember my friends and lovers as they really were,
I in turn can smile in earnest, for in my dreams the refrain is still played.

"Spring Reborn"
Copyright © 1996

Patrick Nate

What gifts a spring does bring,
Enticing all with coats of green.
Light filters radiantly toward earth,
While on forest lawn below carpets give way to banner rare.

Lupine, paintbrush, daises, laurel and dodder wind,
Where renaissance flows resolutely across the land met keenly in all spaces.
Where waters course from mark to mark,
There anoint delicate pads of lily in ponds conceptual with birth reveled.

Feathered lovers forecast their joys lest they be last to greet the task,
And then take to wing to dart and chase through forest and glen.
Bushy tailed squirrels chatter and leap from bough to bough,
Now resting but a moment, pursuing down mighty trunks with nimble grasps of tiny feet.

Dens fill with eyeless kits, now naked and pink, gorged with mother's milk,
Guarded by the darkness, evolving ever stronger soon to join the light.
Hawk above swoops down on trees crowned in splendor;
Creatures duck away in haste to earn survival till dawn returns and wings grow silent.

Light now fades as the day cools quickly and life is shrouded in coming darkness,
While tiny shrews sit upon a mushroom stretching, testing the air with caution.
Little hunters seek rewards under sun warmed leaves as a pale moon rises,
And little feet brave a new spring with hope for life reborn.

"I Walk the Woods"
Copyright © 1996

Patrick Nate

I walk the woods in spring, soft rain falling about my shoulders,
as the boughs bend and weave in brisk wind.
Mockingbirds dance merrily from branch to branch,
singing a multitude of grand melodies, bold and rich in tone.

Squirrels flash their tails in response, each vying for their space,
mindful of my intrusions as I walk far below.
Bluebonnets wave in meadows flocked together in carpets of blue and white,
stretching as far as the eye can see.

The trail winds to a brook, shallow and noisy,
bubbling, frolicking, rolling, and dancing its way along its ancient path.
Mice and men are equal in the setting; each shares the bliss,
while noisy steps resound my intrusion in the kingdom that is really theirs.

At my feet a possum has been crossing,
the prints of her tiny feet still visible in the rich and wet earth.
Crows cry out in jealous rage as they evict a reluctant owl,
encouraging wings of brown to spread in the blustery rain.

Off flies the owl in haste, crows crowded close around,
chasing, and darting, and on flies the unwelcome owl.
I smile and wave as they soar by, and I wish them all the best,
There is room for all of us to pass this way, in the rain, in the woods.

"Summer Heat"
Copyright © 1996

Patrick Nate

Heat, unbearable heat blazing 'round my head,
and dripping wet, sweaty hands mop endlessly at brow.
Relentless this sun, this lack of rain,
driving me to drink, and drink all I can.

Guzzling, chug-a-lugging postures I insist are needed;
none other could give me pleasure or hope.
Temperatures in Fahrenheit, degrees unbearable, remarkable,
less than human for a man's existence, thus I ask for mercy.

In its stead I get only mercury, rising, roasting,
and often hypnotizing to the extent I'm willing to do what is less rational.
To rid my life of blazing heat that licks about my soul,
as hints of Dante's meanings are grasping at my throat.

Weather patterns all about missing bands of moisture,
and where rain falls is never near; lesser are the chances.
High pressure above us, low pressure avoids us,
while 102, or 103 on the rising needles invite us to collapse.

A summer's promises fried into dust, leaving parched roses in decline,
while I am left to find my way through endless days of heat.
I will dream a restless dream of fall and swig upon my tea,
as I stare at spider-cracked earth that's sure to break a leg.

"The Sweet Soul of Music"
Copyright © 1998

Patrick Nate

Music is born, supported, nursed by man,
nudged into existence from some seemingly lifeless form.
Notes scattered about a page, or bars metered out to capture its life-force,
and birth occurs of blended sounds through breeding obtained in transference.

Feelings, sights, emotions, events, turned willingly, lovingly into harmonics, notes reliving the past, predicting the future, allowing us to dare to touch our senses.
Note and beat, blended thus and music flows as fine wine sampled on a discretionary tongue, numbing in its pleasures, inviting one to partake of more.

It matters not that some dislike it, for notes are meant to test and tempt different spices, and those that find them pleasant command raptures to the core, hooked ever more.
The composer grasps instrument in hand and spreads out the work; created with spirited purpose that seeks eternal recognition and acceptance for its life.

Lovingly the master strikes the first notes, blended in harmonious warmth, and glow, while his eyes close, inviting imagination to control, projecting molten images to ponder.
The melody forms, carries out the window, down the streets and byways, as passers relish the tempo, the stirring, exciting to behold.

Lovers stop and seek its coming and linger, cocking ears with cupped hands, seeking out the weighted sounds of warmth and love expressed note-by-note.
Measured impressions, interpretive mere jottings, carried on the wind, born of man, echoed by nature, nurtured and shared by all who pause, stop, listen and hear the sweet soul of music.

"Apologies to William"

Copyright © 1998

Patrick Nate

Centuries forward thy prose has reigned, stood the test, whilst in our midst there are those who flog your gainful efforts.
As would a leach prose-grabbers borrow from the best, you kind sir, and do as they will with thy plots, flaunting street-wise abandon and malice.

I suspect egotism, insolence, peppered with insult must smart you, although you cannot, of a personal determination, thus refute these trespassers.
To you, fine gentleman, coinsure of verbiage, plot, and character; I remit I have seen with my own eyes, heard with exploited, imposed upon ears the onslaught!

Some, my mentor, my grantor of ascendant and pliable verbiage, do still listen to the master; still seek the perfection for you seemed natural.
I saw, heard with these very ears, delivered, with care and attention to detail, your own Romeo and Juliet near three score ago in film, where I was brought to proper tears.

Where again, and on film, I visited Hamlet with gusto and in awe, as how you could thus always know the right of it, that which endures.
For those who know your work's proper verbiage, your theater now stands resplendent as before, and how I ache to receive thy treasured words in grand Avon.

Now, in these moments I live, some productions run amuck, thus I compare their efforts descended to the dung heap, a noticeable travesty.
Aye, and the best to you, William, and me for one, apologizes for the rascals, who with insensitive behavior repeat, that if you were but here, you would do it thus!

"To My Son"
Copyright © 1998

Patrick Nate

To my son, I must begin, although it seems unlikely I would thus embark,
for so late in life you arrived to expand upon my days.
First I saw you, you had just met birth, all wet and wrinkled,
and I marked your blink just once with intention to gain my study.

First moments for you, my son, were filled with risks,
while I for one took notice of your struggle, though I could do little but wait.
Later I watched your little form, so fragile, with signs of family,
and yes, history already written in the contours of your face.

Now these first years I have seen you grow and seek knowledge,
now planted beneath those soft, blond curls.
You look at me with blue, sparkling eyes, skirted with mirth,
with indications of where the humor in your actions takes root.

Your first steps I witnessed, just we two did share,
when you, while gazing out the door did rise and embark upon your adventure.
Where that first step now carries you, has begun to beckon,
while we who witness your quest know your strength and independence.

I will not detain you in your search, nor question your motives,
for vision is cast from freedom to make choices quite alone.
The window for guidance is narrow, so I will contribute what I can to see you through, while knowing, dare you walk alone, you will know from whence you came.

"Write When You Can"
Copyright © 1996

Patrick Nate

I have read your letters,
imbibing every word, regretting I have earned nothing more for my being.
A few hundred thought provoking verbiage that represents your life,
accompanied by dozens of well-placed commas, periods, and the likes.

I see between those examples, for not to perceive is to be blind of human spirit, when life is left like that, pressed firmly between the pages.
Neatness counts for something, it is a definitive sign supper never was late, and children were always off on time, house so neat, thoughts uncluttered.

She, as I, has wrestled with the past,
not allowing thoughts of yesterday to visit on her life.
Like remembering the taste of sweet morsels, long denied yet treasured, instantly recognizable and desirable.

Words on paper, more than words, with impact and impression,
weighted, saying just the half, not the whole.
Perhaps from fear, perhaps from trepidation,
the lack of correspondence and connection remains the norm.

I remain an optimist, what élite voices remain?
I have little more than idle conjecture to solicit from her vital life.
Write when you can, I will remain in waiting,
watching for the postmark that will share your civilities with me.

"Come To Sit For Tea"
Copyright © 1998

Patrick Nate

Débuting it day-by-day, on we trudge through life's latest incidences, with subtle thoughts as to the merit of existence, side-by-side with needs, wants.
The body ages, grows weary, longing for a reprieve, a moment to regress, back to a time when muscle and sinew were toned and willing to answer to the task.

I sit before a mirror, now addressing the aged, white-haired stranger I have become, lines crossing the polar plains of a craggy face, punctuated with puffy eyes that stare back.
Who is the ancient time traveler I have begot? Where is the youthful soul residing, the lad who wooed the ladies, laughed at the face of fatigue and challenge?

When young, I would spring to my feet to run a mile for joy of life alone, and now I run not many paces to avoid even the falling rain assaulting me from car to porch.
In my youth, all seemed possible as youth's silver platter of self, ego, essence, soul; all sprang from a cornucopia of exuberance, manifested upon visions of indestructibility.

Legions of bronzed friends, eager for adventure, education, lust, surrounded me, and each was an extension of that illusive time that fades in a late summer's light.
So sublimely the actors change, with no intent to admit that a season's time spent, and the Christmas' thus passed produced this year's middle-aged men.

It's all the others I see who have aged, taking on that state of cotton-headed wanderers, looking distinguished in their Sunday best, while I remain as youthful as before.
The man I see in the looking glass still laughs with adolescent delight, wishing every day that the boyish man within would again come to sit for tea.

not trusting the movement's progress upon my wrist.

Years had emanated
and departed without her noting my existence,
while my thoughts were of her the entire span.

Without fanfare,
this angel did arrive, and as she ambled toward me, she smiled,
stirring, breeding, and spawning old memories to flare within my soul.

As if it were yesterday thus shared,
she took me to her bosom to bid me good tidings,
while my soul took flight on wings I knew not that I still possessed.

Those same hands, small, sincere,
caring and warm I felt once more, wrapped in my own,
lending strength where so long there was none.

It persisted only a moment,
though it persuaded, convinced, brought clear to mind what I,
the man from her past knew had been missing.

Upon our being seated,
we chatted on as if we had shared table the day before
and I for one found it difficult to stare upon her face while remembering those eyes.

We spoke of our past sincerity
and what had gone amiss,
while waiters hovered all about confused as to why we failed to order.

All too soon,
the hour grew late, and we had just begun to share our thoughts,
though in her wisdom she knew precisely what to say to ease my lonesome burden.

Timeless hours
had locked her away in a life so far away, unaware of my pain,
and yes, she tried her best to take it with her, but it seems it's here to stay.

I awakened with a start, blinked at the ceiling darkened by the night,
and sensed something amiss, causing me to rise full up.
The air was chilled, settling upon my very soul, gripping at my heart,
ripping breath and strength away with no way to know the meaning.

I fumbled in the dark, searching for my robe, afraid to light the room,
lest the pain of reality should cast down upon me, sealing me in wretched fate.
The only sounds I heard were my own pulse, pounding in my ears,
and the shallow breathing known in moments of distressful times.

I stared at the door, frozen in my thoughts of ill-will about, pressing,
hemming, pushing me aside with no chance to recover.
My hands did shake, and with fists tight, defiant, I stood my ground,
hoping against all hope, events would right themselves.

That the ache within would be plucked away leaving only hope,
and yet I heard not a step in the hall, or clattering of dishes in the kitchen.
Familiar smells of coffee, breads, spices did not tempt me,
but instead the air was tainted with stale linen and old flowers.

I mustered courage to rise and face the door, reaching for the handle,
and then with shaking fingers, I clutched the cold metal and grasped it firmly.
I pulled wide the offending barrier, staring into the empty hall,
where only the light burns brightly, and her lovely form moves nevermore.

Down the lane near Farrow's Glen, I wandered,
where roses grow in wild profusion across cobbled stone fences.
Once was the day when Gladys Farrow tended all,
and splendor ruled in multicolored hues of silken dandies.

Dawn would find her there, dressing out her window,
each blossom settled in, as if was natural to share a life just there.
A melody would lilt upon my ears from pipes fit for kings,
coaxing me from early bed, just to hear the tune.

My sister thought me daft for making such a fuss,
over flowers in a window, and singing to the stroke of a straw broom.
I never minded the calling out, or the cold water of early morn' upon my face, for I always knew that Gladys Farrow's roses and cheery notes waited for me there.

Farrow's Glenn was old, and bent over with vine and bramble,
providing homes for many a creature that scurried upon the path.
Some said they robbed her garden, but Gladys never paid them any mind,
and even placed a pallet down with chaff and grain from the fields.

There always seemed enough for all in Farrow's Glenn,
where the path turns up the hill, and stately oaks mark the course.
I can see it still, that flower vase in the window, while cupping an ear towards Gladys Farrow's lovely voice, and yet see my single rose waiting in the window.