Poetry

The Loneliest Time of the Day

© Beth Anderson

When the night birds are calling that evening is coming
And daylight is slipping away,
I’m alone and remembering the love we once had.
It’s the loneliest time of the day.

As I look out my window and stare at the shadows,
They blend into purple and gray.
Where’s the love in your eyes and the warm summer skies?
It’s the loneliest time of the day.

I really don’t know why this happened,
Don’t know how it ended this way.
Was it me? Was it you? Or just things people do?
If you sing with the piper, you pay?

So, another long evening, another dark night,
Till the sun puts the shadows away.
I remember and then it starts over again,
The loneliest time of the day.

Gone

© Beth Anderson

I sit outside and watch the stars fall, remembering,
And his music runs through my mind.
Now soft,
Like the touch of his lips,
Now swift,
Like the rush of feeling that swept through my soul
When we were in love.

But it wasn’t enough.
He would never be mine…I knew that.
I could never be his. I knew that, too.
We were light-worlds apart.
Still, the time we had together was magic,
The magic that only two people deeply in love
Can ever share.

The magic of a hidden moment,
A silent touch,
A soft caress, the touch of his hand on mine,
The scent of his skin, the way he smiled…
Love destroyed my senses
And made me think…maybe…maybe…
But it was not to be.

Too soon the magic fled,
Reality returned, consuming my dreams
And I watched, helpless, as they drifted to the floor.
The secret moments we shared turned into ashes
And he was gone. Gone.
Now I sit alone, watching the stars fall, remembering,
And his music runs through my mind.

Solitude

© Beth Anderson

Small child skipping down the street
Weaving all her dreams,
Life outside her fantasy
Is different than it seems.

Inside her head is laughter
And music everywhere,
There are no darkened stairwells
With secrets hidden there.

Isolated young girl,
Struggling to emerge
From her captivating chrysalis,
Now she feels a sudden surge,

And she knows it has to happen,
And she feels the pounding start,
As the words escape, emerging
From the prison of her heart.

Now the woman is a writer,
And the need within her grows,
She’s communicating, touching,
In the only way she knows.

But life outside her fantasy
Is different than it seems…
She’s still the small child, skipping,
Still weaving all her dreams.

Silk Scarves

© Beth Anderson

Silk scarves drift across the soul
To heal the aching child within,
A wisp of feeling, safe and cool,
A sip of love from an endless pool

To speak the words that one must hide,
To calm the swiftly raging tide
Silk scarves float across the soul
And heal the aching child inside.

The Day the Towers Fell

© Beth Anderson

Amazing, these years later, how easily tears fall.
We never really met you, and yet, we know you all.
You’re our fathers and our mothers, our sisters, brothers, too.
You’re all a part of all of us, and oh, how we miss you.

And while we watched the Towers lower silently in place,
While so many perished in the dust with such amazing grace,
This moment of your courage, both beginning and an end,
Is even, after all this time, so hard to comprehend.

But the rest of us will not forget this unforgiven act.
The rest of us still linger with our memories intact.
The horror of the sirens…the tolling of the bell…
Yes. America remembers the day the Towers fell.

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