Calling Your Name

 

Calling Your Name

I stood alone calling your name

It echoed back to me

The sun ran away as the rains came

And soft shadows were all I could see.

I'd sought you all my life

Since I was but a child

I fervently believed you were out there 

Somewhere in the wild.

For my dreams gave me glimpses

That my eyes couldn't see

And I knew you existed

And were looking for me.

But my life took it's turns

Just as all lives, they do

And it distanced, detoured me

From the finding of you.

I met other companions

I married and left

Two lovers who broke me

And left me bereft.

Then I gave up on love

I gave up on life

For who needs a love

That's imprisoned in strife?

But my dreams never left me

They stayed buried, asleep

Laying stagnant and hidden

In my heart, down so deep.

And one day to my surprise

To my shock and my awe

My dreams were revived

By the face that I saw.

For the face was your face

A face I had known

In a dream, in a place

In a world of our own.

Where we walked hand in hand

As we walked through the world

Watching ages pass by us

As our dream lives unfurled.

Oh, and we were so happy

You and I, just we two

Knowing how much you loved me

And how much I loved you.

And I was your beloved
And you were my sweet boy
And our days and our nights
Were filled with pure joy.

But what we didn't know

Till much passage of time

That only in that dream world

Could you really be mine.

Till the Fates co-conspired

With the Heavenly plan

And allowed this sad woman

To once again find that man.

We had always held hope

That someday and somehow

Our two lives would collide

In the here and the now.

And they did in the last place

That we ever had thought

Stumbling there on the one thing

That we always had sought.

What a mystery and wonder!

What a sweetness divine

For my heart was still yours

And your heart was still mine.

How our souls meshed together

And our bodies belonged

Just as sure as a melody

With the words of a song.

But what a cruel turn of fate

Like the changing of weather

Once again we are parted

And cannot be together.

Still I call out your name

Like a prayer on the wind

Wondering how long it will be

Till I find you again.

For even a dream 

Will eventually die

And the image of your face

Will fade from my eye.

But my heart won't forget

Till I take my last breath

That it loves you with a love

That is stronger than death.

 I'm calling your name again now

My sweet boy, my dear

Hoping this time you'll answer

And say Yes love, I'm here.

©By Voo

Oct 7, 2019

12:16 a.m.

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Poetic Poverty

 

Poetic Poverty

Lying on my bed,
I see that there’s a new crack in the ceiling
That wasn’t there last night
There’s a decade old cobweb
With mummified remains
That looks like the man
From the old movie, The Fly,
Caught in a web begging for help
With his scared little mouth
In a perfect round O.

Hmmm. Let’s see
Oh, yes, on the left side of the bed
There’s the wall where my official certificate hung
Before it was confiscated by The Official Poetry Club
Because I hadn’t written anything in almost four days
And that violates stipulations of the membership contract
In the famed school of the unpaid
Poets of mail order prose
Plus, I hadn’t paid dues or bought any books
And was therefore, no longer
Officially, a poet.

Turning my head now to the right,
I peruse the blank square, picture-frame shaped,
Faded from sunlight on the drab empty beige,
That the portrait of my proud Muse once occupied,
Where the love of my life once happily lived,
And where all my hopes and wishes existed
In the warm admiration of her gentle eyes
It is blank
And I am blank
And the world is blank
So the page is blank
And all my ink has dried up in the well.

It’s almost like living
Without blood in my veins
Almost like having no heart
In my chest
I am the Tin Man
With hollow exterior
And nothing inside but a lonely echo
(hello….hello…..hello……)
My mind is a wasteland
With no words moving across it,
No tumbleweeds of angst,
Or clever repartee’
With a wit now so dry
It has died in the drought.

This is poetic poverty, this is
No Hallmark card verse, no obituary stuff
Made up out of guilt to hide the sad fact
That the dearly departed had not been properly loved
Until death’s hand has removed them
Beyond the reach of rejection
This is not limerick,
Or haiku, or prose
Hymn, lyric, ode
Sonnet, or symphony
Written on the gray cells
Of a composer’s vast brain.

This is inability to think or to feel
My gift has deserted me and left me to mourn
To crawl wounded alone into a dark closet
Howling amongst sweatshirts and faded blue jeans
That I still hang onto, believing one day,
They’ll fit me again and you’ll want me back
And I’ll be young and handsome and gifted enough
To write a great classic, some urban masterpiece
Or a radio jingle or at the very least,
My number on a matchbook that will go round the world
And find itself clutched in your hand some fine day.

I once was a rich man
And the king of the world
And poetry flowed from me so much
I drowned us both in the sea of my words
But you loved it and you loved me
You loved my verse
And the hustle and flow
Of new-age Shakespeare
Rising deep from my soul
Up to my mouth to your eager ears
Who could not wait to hear what it might say.

But that was before,
Before the drought came,
Before the ocean dried to stream,
And then to trickle,
And then to drop
Before the words no longer came
And they took the world away
Poetic poverty
Empty libraries,
Unwritten songs,
Starving sonnets
Begging on the streets for bread
Because I can no longer write them.

All the pages are empty now
Even potential titles
Have faded away to ghostly script
And piled up in the corners with the dust
I cannot write
I cannot spell
I cannot rhyme
I lie here on this un-made bed
With my hands behind my head
And I can’t remember a single thing I ever wrote
Except for my name in Junior High
Entwined with yours on the back of that tree.

Give me back my words
Give me back my words
I am lost without them
I am wandering in a world without a song
A man without a Muse,
A Tin Man without a heart,
A millionaire, without a dime to his name
And nothing to show
For a life full of rhyme
Not even a blog
On the damn internet.

Poetic poverty, this
Empty archives, empty arms
Dry, parched throat
With no champagne
Hovering ‘neath newspaper
To keep out of the cold
A homeless poet, bereft of poem
Looking for an addict’s fix
To make him write again
Looking for the muse and reader
That took the words away
Longing for the only one
That can make things rhyme again.

©by Voo
May 21, 2011
9:33 p.m.
Thank  you to my Muse………………♥
Ironic, isn't it??  

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