RoseAnn V. Shawiak Poems

Enjoyable melodies of childhood, develop musical perfection
along the way.

Creating prodigies of quality and tonal perfect pitch while
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Yesterday's life has disappeared into a haze of memories
to take out on particularly lonely days.

Present times always seem to intermingle with what we've
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Trees of affection, waving in an early morning breeze,
touching my soul with a gentle reprieve.

Solemnly caressing feelings of happiness, calming
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Stilted, stretching, finding escapes of old age in dancing
rhythms of fate.
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Books of learning are taught by those who don't even know what they've read.
Yet, they continue to teach what they think, giving their opinions ad nauseum, living, making money off of other people's wisdom.
Caring never to tell the truth so it may be finally known and taught compassionately without lies.
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Pensile thoughts dangling in outskirts of my mind,
waiting to be discovered and explored in context.
Sending messages through eye-catching contact,
expressing a desire to be met and known through my writing.
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Dying inside, wishing things could be so different, so utterly insane, like the emotional turmoil stirring within my heart, making me think in nothing but saddened pictures.
Silent words forming constantly without any foreboding or warning.
Existing only by whims of behavior, out on a limb, trying to hold on, but failing.
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Answers replying through the years in unanswered prayers, finding their way at last to my ears.
Now is not the time to be fulfilled, yet a tear forms in the corner of my eye, wishing I hadn't asked for that certain someone to be a part of my life, because now I'm all alone on a hidden passage through mourning, never able to forget the love given to me for such a short while.
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Sauntering into summer breezes, warm upon my brow,
beating upon my hair, shining it like golden corn
under bright lights.
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Soliciting times of yesterday and taking them into the future.
Never taking eyes off of visions holding me within, solitary misgivings don't apply.
Secrets falling on deaf ears, not letting them escape by not mentioning them aloud.
Canisters of intrigue are filled within a mind of mysterious gifts.
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