We hear the sound of Winter's call
waiting for snow to mix with fall
as leaves find their way among tree trunks
nipping at the tail of busy chipmunks.
Targeted by swirls of a frenzied mass
and shadowing the carpet of weary grass
eve and dawn soon join together
accustomed now to cooler weather.
Heeding the voice of a day grown wide
the sun and moon now side by side
reaching high and forth in their nakedness
coming into shadows of a skeletal bliss.
We tire before our scheduled slumber
thinking it later than time's true number
yawning while the bedspreads whisper
as the down grows soft and leaves step crisper.
While tempting us to settle in
as days pass forth and nights begin
a steady rhythm of eternal time
counting out tempo to its cosmic rhyme.
Circling round and round to an endless beat
as each day changes and seasons repeat
for us marks the moment of our own tick-tock
so out of touch with earth's rightful clock.
�2005, Eve Campeau
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Tell me what you see, my friend
so still you lie, in dream, or
is it my dream, afraid to awaken, my friend
Are there colors of the rainbow,
indigo's ink filling in spaces, red's ruby
lips lined in a valley of satin, surrounded
by the murmur of flowers, the aroma of
soap, a scent of sadness blended in
lavender perfume and musk cologne
Why do leaves fall gently over your earth,
molasses dirt rising to the beckoning sun
sleepy and sweet, mouth wide open to catch
sugar rays filled with syrup, savoring
moments gone from the tongue, hands rinsed
of chocolate dyeing the lines of life
Do you hear music, my friend
a lullaby of halcyon lambs, Harps' rocking
melody quieting tired ears, pink glazed eyes
Why you, my friend, whose hourglass' golden sand blows into
windstorms and covers the molasses dirt.
�2005, Eve Campeau
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Framed pictures on the wall
finger-paints of yellow, and red, and blue,
the primary colors of youth,
white added to create robins' eggs
and pink carnations
Pigtailed girls trading cat's eyes
for half-melted Good Humor, giggling,
a single lick leaving fresh traces
around lips and leaping years to jump over
the stone that lands on three,
hopping to rhythms of the rope--
thwat, thwat, thwat
Dual harmonies of promises, and hooked fingers
blending with singing voices that whisper
a secret language of the crickets long into the night,
past the moon's calling,
and the sandman's whisper
Time stands still for only so long,
tomorrow swim and splash,
hold deep breaths underwater for as long
as possible and reemerge breathless
to grab the wall.
�2005, Eve Campeau
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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