Oh, poems? Them I got.
Evening, everyone. We sort of took a nap, but Frank was gassy.
Really beautiful. Unique rhythm, too—like sing-song and that works with the sentiment.
Thanks for sharing it, you have real talent with words.
“A Weeping of Stones
This is where the love went, that sang from youthful eyes,
Into the stone which weeps its tears, when joined by weeping skies.
The stone now shouts its lie out, the pain from metal blade,
Here lies the symbol of a love. Here’s where the pain has stayed.
The sculptor had an artful eye, and caught the loving glance.
He froze it with a chilling spell, and sundered love’s last chance.
Though art could capture what he saw, his heart was dead to sight,
In carving out a lover’s stare, he closed off loving’s light.
The girl has gone now, her reward, unknown to all of us,
How sad that this reminder then, becomes a warning thus,
Look out upon the world and see the wonder that is there,
But do not close your eye to love, and do not lose your share.
The sculptor died alone, they said, a sad and lonely man,
Who could have found fond happiness, as any of us can.
His fame did not provide for him the pleasures that he’d planned.
But I have seen a face like hers on children of this land.
NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . . . . November 10, 2004”