Friday, August 31, 2007
This month features an old friend who also happens to be a wonderful poet: Pete Crepeau
What I Didn't Do
I didn't touch your face as you slept
but it was not for a lack of wanting.
I heard your heaves as you quietly wept,
quite disconcerting, vividly haunting.
I couldn't touch the source of your pain,
if I could I would have erased it.
A star crossed moment has left its stain,
your withering heart sadly embraced it.
I never sang the song that you needed
when uplifting could have come to fore.
I weakly withdrew and sadly conceded
I was a companion and nothing more.
I could have held you long into the night
drawing out your desires for love.
This would have been perfect, a time to recite
all the loving words I'd been thinking of.
Ah, but I didn't touch your face or your heart
for my own fears bottled me so.
All of this non action has torn me apart,
I understand why you've chosen to go.
A Toothbrush is Missing
There’s two coat pegs by the back door,
one’s used, the other lays bare.
The hose that used to dry in the bathroom
is conspicuous in that it’s no longer there.
The queen size bed has far too much space,
I get lost in its vastness alone.
The dual basin vanity where we used to primp
holds one basin that’s dry as a bone.
The four-slice toaster is now only half used,
there’s always coffee to spare.
The society page of the paper is left untouched,
nobody’s here to attend the next gala affair.
It’s been just a week but these changes are noted,
deafening quiet fills singular air.
You sent for your things, now nothing remains,
just echoes of disenchantment, beyond repair.
Caught in a Moment
She held out her hand as an offer of love.
Her eyes spoke of rapture most deep.
I swear I heard orchestral strains from above
in this moment my heart longed to steep.
Her ethereal beauty caught my breath in a gasp,
her earthy warmth escaped in a rush.
How I longed to be the golden lock to her hasp,
giving voice to this long muted thrush.
She had come to me as if out of a dream
that had played time and again in my sleep.
Her movements flowing, much as a stream,
such pristine running waters, so deep.
Why, at this moment, did my dreams have a face
that I could gently reach out and touch?
There’d been no foreshadowing of this time and this place,
though I had ached for its reality so much.
Slowly I reached to take the hand she presented,
to play my oft-rehearsed role in this “eyes open” dream.
She faded to a wispy fog with a smile most demented
slipping away on a nefarious, dream-killing beam.
Cradling a Heart
You hold in your hands another’s heart,
cradled gently, given with great trust.
Proper care of this treasure, what an art,
soft and measured caring is a must.
The faith that’s been placed in your desire
to lovingly caress what you now hold,
never to be neglected or allowed to expire
should your burning embers grow cold.
You’re now the appointed sentry on post,
there to keep the treasure from knowing harm.
The breadth of your breast, a welcoming host
ensures this guest is loved and kept warm.
Hold fast the pulse of this object d’amore,
let it fill your own life with blessed light.
This care-taking mission’s a joy, not a chore,
that’s perfected over each day and night.
Pete Crepeau was raised in the small town of Newton Junction, NH. As a young man, he was involved in the world of pencil and charcoal sketching, winning awards for his art. He discovered a knack for lyrical poetry that pushed his visual art aside, leaving it in the dust. Pete now resides in Orlando, FL. His book, "Teeing Off & Grinning...A Middle Aged Duffer Looks at the Vagaries of Life in Verse" ISBN 1-4241-2623-1. is available from the following vendors: Amazon.com, Borders.com, Barnes&Noble.com and from the publisher at PublishAmerica.com. The book consists of 434 pages of his poetry and lyrical stories.