Wish and Envy

My night time reveries called dreams are cut short.
My eyes open wide abruptly escaping the pleasantries
of my thoughts and memories
for I wish these, again, to be realities.

Like the first time I walked amidst the trails
between those alpine covered mountains
that pierce through the hanging curtains of the skies
and that feeling comes o’er me of gasping air,
with pleased and tear filled, grateful eyes.

Like music when it filled our youthful ears
and all of life before us,
of friends together as we played
in muddy fields or in dance halls
when we would jump about in fearless fray
then hug each other, all, at the end of the day.

Like quiet walks when first we met,
holding hands feeling each others wet perspiration
that comes from the warmth of our desires.
Like all lovers must feel on their initial strolls
down pathways by the rivers bend,
we stop and face each other, place hands on each others waist,
staring in each others eyes without words being spoken,
our expressive swollen lips gently touch
and tongues searching like keys inserted into doors
awaiting entryways, openings, into lust filled spaces.

These moments now just memories
filling my dreams and daytime reveries
with envy and desires that they would be realities
once again and that my eyes would remain closed
enjoying the comfort of this restful sleep
that usurps the pangs of loneliness.

Free

‘Nature’: The everlasting things are these;
The ageless skies and wrinkled seas,
The silvery beacons of the night,
The fickle moon of transient light.
Unresting winds that seldom sleep
Rocks that external silence keep.
Earth’s mighty sons, the mountains, stand
Unmindful of Time’s withering hand.
Indifferent to the worlds brief woes,
The sun, aloof, forever glows.
Though mortals yield to Death’s decrees,
God’s everlasting things are these.

E.G. Beaudry

‘Love’: That gasp or gulp of air that gathers in the chest
and marries with a smile,
it dances with a palpitating heart,
feels the warmth of an embrace,
human or otherwise,
and in it’s absence nurtures
it’s memory by the trickle of that
teardrop that slowly gathered in
the corner of one’s eye,
blinks and it's released
yet another will soon gather, in memory.

M.L. Arellano