Softer Silent Songs Sound Your Eyes

by Edward Wolverton@2009

Tear drop notes

splashing from the soul,

the cries of life

dancing in the rain,

where sound sings to the heart,

refrains the thoughts that hold

deeply into the mind

where your eyes

meet with mine,

and we shall forever

sing the soft counts

of a heart beating love.

Sound the soft pitch of silence

to woo your sweet eyes upon mine

and swear sweet memories,

that your eyes will forever see

the sounds of a silent song

fall frey upon an ivory keyboard,

that plays ebony keys

in the silence of the night,

where virgin ears might play

and give ways to song and dance.

The softer silent songs

to sound your eyes,

my fluted tongue to swipe the words

that say sweet memories,

and lay upon my heart and soul

such sweet sounds your eyes

bring to me,

and gift to me,

within the silence that stirs,

and fleeted sounds that curl by memories,

my ears that lay

upon your beating heart,

sounding so much softer

in your eyes.

Another Time, Another Place

by Edward Wolverton@ 2009

A raw bone in hand,

the ham bone for the pot of beans.

She sits

she stares,

from the table

into the kitchen,

dreaming of the fair one

who will comfort her

in all her needs,

and wisp her off her feet

and come to take her away.

The Sir Charles,

or the Sir Galahad,

it didn't matter much in her eyes

as they were weary worn with torment,

and talented of several children

and a beast with fierce doom,

once a charming prince

in such a make believe world,

 but now she lay down in lament,

scorning such days

as they ever met.

Another time,

another place,

might this all have happened

in a more generous offer,

are at a more comfortable pace

besides,

hurry up

and cook this child some food.

A loss to her soul,

a one sole survive

in a mixed up mess

with nothing more to wish for,

than having her day

in such a wonderful way,

in another time

or another place

that she might call her own,

and with a champion he male

who brisks muscles and brute

with charm and elegance,

to lay upon her feet

and kiss her sweet softness

as the red carpet is laid out

in front of her,

and that she

is treated Queen for a day.

Time Has A Familiar

by Edward Wolverton@2009

 All that we can remember

is recorded with our minds.

Our souls become one with it,

our hearts become whole with it,

Our minds become alive

and forever searching

for the ultimate truth

of what we have hidden away

within the value of our lifetime.

We are just a speck of dust

within the universal follow,

and a second of life

in the universal spectrum

of time and space.

The hallowed secrets past,

to envision the heavens

within a mortal time frame,

capturing a moment of time and place

to become our being,

where by

having a familiar

that we can see

with our own eyes,

that we can feel

with our own bodies,

that we can live

as sweet memories

become this great show

called life.

This great need

as we follow through time,

this wonderful passion to live

as each day goes by,

opening the books

to all the universal secrets in life,

exploring all the mystery,

to share,

to seek,

to initiate progress

to a human world

in a spiritual way.

We become the moments

of who we are,

with the respect for time

as a familiar,

laying the foundations

of what our souls have become,

and the rules to play

 that we live and die by.

Our efforts to justify

this great moment in time

that we are living,

hoping to surpass

what history has taken upon us,

and has given to us,

that we might understand

this moment that stands upon us

that we might venture onward

into the future of all things

present and past.

Planters Of The Site

by Edward Wolverton@2009

Angel eyes

deer born blue,

as loft this sky

looks into my eyes,

and grasps my soul

to plant the words

that fill my heart

with aged thoughts.

A born this frigid night

to feel this aged cold,

this planted soil once of growth,

now sleeps within this sacred keep,

to seed the wonder of the earth

so long ago,

but now  repents upon a virgin's eyes,

to wear sweet roses in her hair,

and swear to see me

and except my lies,

do tell of days gone by

that I am wooded upon a redwood tree,

this forest primed for fingers and toes.

Shall seeds befall my growth,

your eyes shall charm this naked earth

and toil the cupboard spoil bear with fruit,

and I will know of the planters to this site

and swear my gift of life to make it grow

upon this bed of earth that warms my soul.

The stones have lifted by days gone past

and stomps have withered into ash,

my groins long forgotten to seed this worthy soil

have shed the land of muddied boil,

will spill a bit of earth with sunlight oil

and give birth to this child who grows this Spring,

and I shall hand my limbs to lift this life

and breathe living beauty upon its fate.

The patterns turn to the eyes of the beholder

and the planters turn the soil for new seeds to grow,

once I had planted so long ago

but have forgotten the time of its worth

where the sun did not show.

This time where growth is new upon my eyes

shall I see the seedlings feeding the the rise,

and call me father from the many ill fated wood,

to see a tear drop once where I stood,

but dew drops to feed the earth below

and the sacred shadows at my feet.

Where Writing Begins

by Edward Wolverton@2009

Where writing begins,

is the light that shines

within the minds of men.

It is within the soul that shines

where writing begins,

and clasps the hands of history

into the victory of speech,

by the source

of man,

to communicate

the visions of his dreams.

 It is the tall tale of good fortune,

and the maker of many men.

So shines the days ahead,

and makes the mystery into history,

blending the savages souls

into peaceful whispers.

It is in our minds,

our hearts,

our souls,

to decide what words

are to be used,

or how they must be used,

or when they are to be used.

It may cost,

it might buy us time,

or create havoc,

or seed the rule of humanity.

Where writing begins

is just the beginning of time.

It is the end of all time,

until we speak again.

It is the light that we see

in a long thin tunnel,

or the darkness within,

until the light shines upon us.

We are the souls,

the thoughts,

where time begins to travel,

where writing begins to accrue,

where manifestation of the spirit

begins to form.

Where writing begins

is the book,

the pages within,

the ties that bind,

and the cost of one last thought.

It is the venture into life,

into love,

into verse or script,

with the play

as well,

and do it well.

Where times is the pages

that warp speed and shuffle.

Where a dime is heard to be dropped

upon a paper,

where someday the sights and sounds

of the whole world might quake and quiver.

Where writing begins

is in the heart,

the mind,

and the soul,

and nothing else

will ever become

so great a sound,

as the first word

as it is written on paper.

It is with these words

that we communicate,

translate,

obliterate.

To kill,

to Mame,

to circumvent with the populous,

such great fame and good fortune.

The Hands Of Art

by Edward Wolverton@2009

Joy to the creator,

with his eyes

his fingers to see.

What mind,

length of time

and glory bound,

are these bonds

that captivate me

that I cannot rest,

nor confess my soul

to these deeds

that are yet undone.

I hear the music

wander into the woods,

slowly climbing the ridge

of a great mountain side,

creeping along side

like an emerald forest would

with fog bound hair,

and the music  to share

peace and tranquility

as Mozart speaks,

and Handel's Water Music

bathes us in the bass

of a sweet minuet.

I feel the sharp

laser light of living color

grasping at form,

to bring into living matter

what life would become of us,

or how we were to mold

this great life of ours,

this fantastic form

that vows virginity

into the open light

of the sun,

or the shunning light

of a naked moon

caressing body and soul.

These hands of art

to fulfill great purpose

in the dreams of life,

in the heartbeat abreast,

in the soothing cries

of the pampered soul.

An art form fit for a God,

or a King and Queen,

or the great Moses

in the land of milk and honey,

where joy and laughter,

or muse to song and dance

shall sway the mighty wind.

What Greatness The Song

by Edward Wolverton@2009

What time of need

to have read of these

little words,

that my heart compares

this song and dance

within my heart.

So sworn this oath

to the bosom of my birth,

to swell my eyes in mirth,

the sweet gleam in your eyes

and smiles in your heart

to give you this

greatness of song.

I shall sway the wind

with thee,

show the world

to thy feet,

and come away with me

that I shall show you dance,

and greet you

at the doorway of my death,

to cradle the grave,

to savor this length of time

about these days of life,

and swift sweet words

shall abide our hearts.

This poet

in my eyes

to grant your fair wish

with wisdom in words,

do tell,

come bathe me

in the sunlight of your soul,

and grant me

the sweet sight

of your savory skin,

that I might dance with you,

that I might sing with you

these solemn words upon my lips.

So cherished

are the thoughts

so deep down inside my heart,

that I should speak,

and crumble away

my naked walls of birth

to shine upon your soul this day,

and swear to you,

and sing to you,

and to write my heart

upon the visions

of your love,

and to read to you

what greatness

this song has to say.

Enter

by Edward Wolverton@2009

Enter

into the mind,

where reality checks

and imagination unleashes,

clashing into the sublime of

mortal text,

or climbing the steps

to the immortal crashing

of the proverbial vexation

in other worlds,

or with absent ways,

these great wanderings

of physical attractions to

combine with force

and giving thrust,

to push you into

the realms of the unknown,

this grand excitation

of verse and prose

that will elude your inner thoughts.

Enter

into the domain of free will,

where laughter will choke you

or sobbing tears could bring joy,

as you see fit

to gather nuts and stones

for this great frost of Winter's harvest,

or that one lost moment of Summer's discontent,

to toy with joy and set with sail,

or scream with laughter and race the snail,

at this precise second of time

when you know

that dreams are dreams,

and reality comes

in small bursts of imagination.

Enter

into the realm of the mind

where right is right,

and wrong is wrong again,

each time you spend time over again

trying to just get it right,

not knowing if it were even

worth all this great effort

to prove yourself right or wrong,

or gifting yourself

with the wonderful personality

of a drained clone,

once lost three weeks ago

on some laboratory table,

next door to an amusement park.

Enter

into the realm of yoyo's and tops,

spinning and spinning,

or falling and climbing,

in the same amount of time

on different intervals of space,

placing you in the midst

of lung's and fervor,

or habitual and not forgotten,

only to pull you

into the immediate sanity

of this innermost moment,

or frustrate you beyond all compare,

to contrast you between two wits

and with only one great might,

to complete your long lost journey

of unforgettable crap.