Poets Old and New
Poets old and new have tried expressing to me and you,
The meaning of love.
Perhaps to themselves, or another,
A child or a lover,
How to explain such feeling, reeling,
Senses of an emotion which knocks down the fences Defences.
Love is that tender smile.
The walking of that extra mile with a stranger or friend.
It's the tears that fall at the end,
Of a life.
It's the strife we face as we raise our young,
whose lives have just begun.
It's the gentle touch needed so much.
Given to a heart riven by sorrow,
It’s the patience offered tomorrow,
Seen in the furrow of a frown.
The smile of a clown.
It’s the longing for the kiss from the one we so miss,
More than this…
The whisper of the breeze singing through the trees,
The early morning chorus of the birds.
The comforting words,
“I’m here, never fear."
It’s in the first step of the child
In the wild mountain and plain.
In the lovers game.
In the refrain of a song.
In knowing you belong.
In the shy glance across a crowded room,
when knees buckle and a heart begins to swoon.
It's in the reading to a pleading child of a bed time story
in the glory of the sunset and sunrise.
In the eyes of another,
A friend, a mate, a lover,
It sometimes defies description,
but is the best prescription for the human soul,
for it makes it whole.
No poet am I,
But love still makes me sigh.
I wouldn't be the me you see.
© 2019 Carole Emb