Star
• 08/29/18 at 11:11PM •When they come, from near and far,
Some by boat, most by car,
Just to see about, who you are,
Do you now feel, like a star?
When they come, from near and far,
Some by boat, most by car,
Just to see about, who you are,
Do you now feel, like a star?
I can never, explain to you,
How I love, the things you do.
For the words, should sing and dance
And rekindle, any lost romance.
Why's the morning grass, covered with dew,
Reminding me of my love for you?
Is it because, on some future day
The love we knew, will go away?
It is not for us to understand.
Life will end and be so grand.
A poem can be, like a child.
Sometimes so meek and sometimes so wild.
Does this bode well, I ask of you?
For raising both, is what we do.
Will our love die, without a whimper
Or does it go away, like a roar?
Is the pain of losing, very hurtful,
Like nothing, we have ever felt before?
Do we fight through, all the suffering,
As we look for love, even more?
I ask of you, this question to help me,
For nothing else and nothing more.
When the wind blows, through the trees,
It's not a gale but a breeze.
The wind will help, with it's refrain,
Now all we need is some rain.
Rain, is the nectar, of the best.
It puts the green, in the Northwest.
Life drifts by, like on a boat,
Our main goal, is to stay afloat.
Into the blue and well beyond,
I'll search for you, after you're gone,
Your smile, will be, my guiding light.
I'll search for you, day and night.
For all our friends, far and near.
Those friendships, that we hold dear,
That mean the most. I must implore,
That we meet again and do explore,
A relationship, that will still last,
Although, so many years are now past.
Who said, "When it rains, it pours?"
We need them back, as we need more.
To go without rain, flowers have died.
The flowers we have, are all dried.
Words, that I thought, were long dead,
Are now swirling around, in my head.
My mind is like and empty bin.
Words go out and come back in.
Words, mostly of love and sometimes grim,
Are fat and meaty or very thin.
What meaning, does that provide to me,
Is thus: What will be, will be.
What poets feel not, when they make,
A pleasure in creating,
The world, in its turn, will not take
Pleasure in contemplating
Matthew Arnold (1822 - 1888) English poet and cultural critic.