Poetry by Jeff Green

3252–Just_working_on_these_in_private.html

Just working on these in private

by cricketjeff on March 2, 2009.  © Jeff Green, All rights reserved

This is possibly a competition entry so cannot be published yet but I find it easier to correct and polish poems I see on screen

 
 
Dewdrops  
Each evening since he met her she had tucked herself away;
                A special gift her Grandmother had said.
The soft cold gold inspired her and she knew just what to say,
                With pen in hand the words were in her head.
Each word she wrote was from her heart and every line was true;
The rich blue ink rolled from the nib as fresh as morning dew.

The summer dance where first they kissed was set down on a page,
                The way he held her turned to gentle rhyme.
The words she wrote that evening seemed to say she’d come of age
                And she would dance with him for all of time.
A waltz of words cascaded from the love that she now knew,
Her poetry was sweeter than an April morning’s dew.

The day he knelt before her with a ring that shone with fire
                Became a crown of sonnets overnight.
Her Grandma’s pen recorded every nuance of desire,
                Those verses seemed to fill her mind with light.
The gift to paint your lifetime is accorded to so few,
And fewer still record it with the gleam of mountain dew.

Their wedding day was rain-swept but the sun was in her heart
                And not a cloud obscured her poetry.
The pen again transcribed it and it took an active part
                It changed her words to perfect harmony.
Tradition says a bride must wear a single thing that’s blue
A sapphire broach from Grandma’s box that spoke of falling dew.

The midwife held the baby while she sat and wrote in bed,
                The day their first born daughter came to stay.
Another page of magic told of all that would be said,
                And all the times the two of them would play.
The rolled gold nib just seemed to know the love that would ensue
And helped her turn her feelings into meadows kissed with dew.

Just two more years before their son the image of his dad
                Was set down in her round and loving hand
The pen responded sweetly and she knew that it was glad
                Her family was now completely scanned
She sighed in satisfaction and her writing gave a clue
She saw the world as hedgerows that were dressed in crystal dew

The dreadful day her husband died the pen was laid aside
                No longer felt the need to sit and write
She bound her leather notebooks and she waited for the tide
                That told her that her life was nearing night
Each morning now was empty and the rain beat a tattoo
No longer could she see each day beneath its shining dew

Her daughter’s daughter visited and brought a smiling man
                And then the pen was writing in her mind
A special gift was handed from a very loving Nan
                Another generation had to find
The words to tell the future that each day was bright and new
And love can make each moment seem a rose that’s crowned with dew.