Linda Marie Van Tassell
The morning is moist with ocean spray.
The islands, they twist around the bay;
and across them all, my eyes have scanned -
the rocky cliffs and the buttes of sand.
I almost think it an Irish isle.
Such beauty to make the heart beguile.
Sunrise stain on a listless ocean
serves to add to the magic potion.
A boat is docked alongside the pier.
A woman and man are standing near.
He is setting sail to ports unseen
upon the gilded Emerald Queen.
Standing on tip-toes to give a kiss,
she cries while pretending unfelt bliss.
Others have perished over the years.
They left these isles for happier spheres.
And I know the pain on lips unstirred,
the hurt behind that familiar word -
the word 'good-bye' and all it implies
and the heart that bleeds in streaming eyes.
He holds her hand as he walks away.
His linen shirt as bright as the day.
At last he lets loose; this is the end.
His sandy blonde hair blows in the wind.
Bright blue waters open to the skies.
He is gone, and she kneels as she cries.
I can't help but watch and weep at heart.
It's always sad when lovers depart.
Dark shadows fall, but they never stand.
They fall in my heart and in my hand.
In the sky, a milk-watery moon
and a thousand star-lights sweetly strewn.
My lover left some five years ago
when sunlight had a heavenly glow.
I guess we were never meant to be,
and some souls are just meant to be free.
The aches, the pain - a peculiar case.
Love is the flaw of the human race.
I'm in love with one but bound to none,
like the moon yearning after the sun.
I'm like a player before the keys
who plays a tune that is meant to please;
but keys are silent within the heart -
always silent when lovers depart.
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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