5.29.14 Maravot's poetry continued

Poetry for People, Dragons
Other Unusual Creatures

by Mel West


Dead Man's Creek 

Oh, to go back to Dead man's Creek,
Where children play in waters warm;
And all is green where animals seek
Refuge from the thunderstorm.


To play as yesterday
In its pools of translucent dew,
Where fish and guppies swim as they may
Near banks awash with many a shoe.


To play with a child's delight
To swim in ponds fed by mountain stream:
Of this I found in nature a right
A kingdom of innocence and mankind's dream.


To drink in pools of chilly springs
Where Mr. Crawdad jiggles and wiggles under his rock;
And periwinkles, the strangest things,
Rest in the mud, a twig they mock.


To have you see the tunnel too,
Where the creek will downstream flow,
'Neath that lonely road the waters rush through,
Whilst that lonely road streams to Idaho.


Drivers for a moment see below
Children jumping from heights of glee;
Fishing and swimming in paradise aglow
With nothing on but nudity.


To be what I've dreamed of most,
To be free of this material ghost;
It's holding me, clinging to me.
Wretched though my future be,
I pray my fate will come along
Whispering gently in September's Song.
No matter the worse that yet may come,
I'll cherish a change to leave this slum.

For a Cause without Pittance


Painting by Maravot from the mid '60's

My thoughts haunt my inner self to the point of guilt;
I fear that without putting them on paper nothing may be built,
While feeling at once a moment of recrimination,
Denying myself the pleasure of distinction
In not having written something of worth.
For whom do I convey these solemn words so few,
Given in type as best as I do?
Is it that I write to hear myself think,
To open myself to myself so that a necessary link,
A knot in my soul, may be opened?
Is it a pleasant moment of satisfaction that I get
In having my soul opened up showing an unpaid debt,
An obligation to someone of something of cause unknown
To which my youth has been dedicated and I have grown?
Or have I dedicated myself to an early age of senility?
How can I give to myself that which I have not?
Or how can others give to me that which they know not?
How can I seek an answer in a gift that has not been given,
In only those things for which I know I have striven?
So who would hear me?
My heart cries out for the world to hear
Just a few words that I hold so dear.
And if by chance that I should be read,
I would hope that my tears will have been shed
In a cause without pittance.


What all should know

How often I wished during a solemn night's rest,
Watching a sensitive scene, a moment of compassion:
Hearing the soft, touching words of love,
To be able to express in words the thoughts and warmth
That envelops me so.
How can I profess my love for man,
My dreams, my hopes, my understanding;
And how can I transfer in words those enduring melodies
Of Tenderness, the greatest works of an age;
And how can I reflect in a mirror of unrest
Those moments of worth which we ought to know?
And most of all, how can I convey that which
Both you and I know all should know?



San Francisco

If there can be a fairyland of night
Where nature flowers her glitter
Through magic hills twinkling with light,
Where merriment rules hither and thither,
And the old and new share a stage,
Torn from a fairy tale, a Wonderland's page,
Then this I love with all my might.


And if there is a city so dear,
Which cherishes its people and cuddles its lore,
To remain what it is with not a fear,
Nor have any cause to small to ignore,
Then this is the place I'll stay,
Living a simple life in the serenity of the Bay.
This, my love, is San Francisco, my dear.




Have you heard the leaves whisper sounds,
Creating a rustling through the grounds,
A background melody,
For all the things which comfort thee?

Have you felt the springtime air
Caress her fingers through your hair?
Have you heard the noisy life around?
Stamping out beauty for you and me? 

Have you listened for awhile
And discovered things beyond a mile?
Have you found something new
Every time your ear turns from away from you?

Or can you only hear
A few sounds here and there?
Have you missed every living day
The sounds that weren't very far away?

Or are you the one stomping around,
Hurrying from mount to mound,
Crashing through thickets every day,
Crushing things which are in your way?

Are you going so fast you can never see
Or hear the things which beg to comfort thee?
Stop just for awhile
And put the living things on trial.

Let them prove you've missed a life
Which soothes the restless and deplores the strife.
Listen each day for something new
And honor the things that bring life to you.


The Arc above my Soul

Arcing high above my soul
A rainbow grows within the mist;
A pot of Gold, your heart I stole,
Your tender touches, each moment now missed.
Your brightness in the morning's beam,
Traced a golden arc across my breast;
The rainbow's delight, my childhood dream,
Filled my heart as you quietly dressed.
The caressing moments and cheerful days,
Holding you, I'm want to lose;
Our life crumbled in many ways;
In the many options we did not choose.
"Don't look back," they often say;
How often your memory turns my way
And tumbles my senses from head to toe.
For the want of timing and things to be
This treasure's given now to my memory;
But I for one shall forever know
This Pot of Gold I grip shall always glow;
And I for one shall forever be
Owing more love than I gave to thee.



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Launched 10.12.97; updated 5.31.99; 5.27.2000; 3.16.05; 2.15.06; 5.29.14

Copyright 1964-2014 Maravot. All rights reserved.
Copyright 1964-2014 Mel Copeland. All rights reserved.

(background from San Clemente apse)