Loyal hearts are a paradox,
These strong and frail commodities,
They're not concerned with etiquette,
Or confused by love's vast oddities,
They're strongest not for how they love,
Not weak for vision that they might lack,
They're strongest once they've been abandoned,
Love one who will not
Love them back...

Slow is her progress and high is her climb,
It's measured in arcs that trace my night sky.
I spoke and she answered, but only in rhyme,
Across space and time, the poetess and I.

In my dream we met, and she told me she'd written,
Something dear to her kind heart- a poetic creation.
For Sara herself, I was utterly smitten,
And I urged her to share it, with awkward elation.

I rambled then, foolish, and shy to be near,
Since her words had already reached me before.
In a future that’s past yet, paradoxically, here,
And knowing, not knowing, just what was in store.

“There's a poem that you wrote...”, I had started to say,
“In the Bradbury story, I think that's the one”,
“There's an automated house that's going through it's day...”,
“It recites your piece aloud...?  but the people have all gone...?”

“ ‘There will come soft rains’,dear friend”, her reply,
And her smile said, “thank you.  I'm glad you recall”,
“But this one is shorter”, and her voice was a sigh,
“It’s a different theme, but encompasses all”.

Then, as you'd expect, in the midst of a dreaming,
She opened her notebook and the next thing I knew,
Four lines of writing appeared, only seeming,
To arrange themselves magical, universal and true.

——————————————————
"Moon's  Ending"  by Sara Teasdale

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,
In the dawn clouds flying,
How good to go, light into light, and still
Giving light, dying.
——————————————————

Every step of our lives, we are walking the line,
Fail or succeed, illuminated in the trying,
The moon is just as bright when she's on the decline,
Our light, consolation to the living or dying.

Thank you, poets. You gave everything that you could,
When you’d make something holy from the simplest spark.
Thank you, friend, for understanding. I had hoped that you would.
Thank you, Sara, for writing the light and the dark.

my Father wrote poetry in younger years
of love and loss
of joy and fear
i discovered his work tucked away in a drawer
castaway drifter
returned to the shore

who was this man of sentiment
whose gift of prose is long since spent
who spoke so rarely
and laughed not at all
i knew him not
beyond the wall
that stood in stone
grew stronger with age
his soul now resides
in this book
on this page

Stealing away from the noise and glare
I paced the aisles of an ancient library
Being worn and tired, indisposed to read
I sat in a corner, lost in half reverie

Around me were books stacked end on end
In safely locked glass and wooden shelves
And sectioned into different genres
Fiction, non- fiction, verse et al, in thinly layered leaves

I felt lost in this vast continent of erudite friends
Poet, scholar, philosopher and sage, each sat quiet
But those silent souls seemed to crave for human touch
Waiting to serve anytime learning’s lovesome diet

Closely sheltered from the tumult of the world
The place, though serene had an eerie air
And books like so many beauties in a harem
Were kept away in seclusion just to admire

The lifeless air and the long deserted look
Mildly disturbed my inner calm
Couldn’t digest man’s total disregard of books
Which for long, to many a lonely soul, served as balm

Sitting amid those gallant souls
I thought over the relentless efforts of sage like men
Who in the stillness of the night, in their cloistured cells
Plunged into research and meditative reflection

What knowledge is garnered in these tomes!
What all charms, encased in these pages!
To what magic lands they can carry us
Sharing with us the accumulated wisdom of ages

With the profusion of electronic gadgets
And information, readily available by a finger hit
Books no more are given a venerable treat
And fated to be stashed away in corners unlit

Heavy with the time tested wisdom of the wise
They sit huddled together in damp corners
Longing to get a little human warmth
But sadly neglected like rusted burners

After an hour’s enervating reprieve
While I was leaving that dumb world
In my ears, fell a faint sound
Of the agonizing cry of the Printed Word!

Do I remember too much about
The strangers I meet?
There was the skinny seven year old at the
Park in Detroit, who I learned liked autumn
And colorful leaves, pumpkins and Halloween,
Scarecrows and working in the garden.
There was the Japanese lady at the
Hotel breakfast in DC, calmly eating a donut,
Staring off into space, gracefully lost in her own
Thoughts and feelings.
There was the happy man at the
Veteran’s home, who talked gratefully to me
About his experiences, desperate to
Share his story.
There was the single mother on
The park bench, allowing me, a total stranger,
To watch her children while she took
A much needed nap.
There was the black man at the
Movie theater, who offered me his
Extra bag of popcorn and made sure I knew
When the jump scares were.
Do I remember too much about
The strangers I meet?
I don’t think so.
Appreciate humanity,
Because you never know when it might be gone.
Each one of these people were beautiful,
In their own way, and they weren’t even
Trying to be.
They were just living their lives,
And I was fortunate enough to be a part of them
For a short time.
You know why they were beautiful?
Because they just were.