Lughs Garden

by R.W. Dean

Like children, singing songs they’ve learned by rote,
Their words, just simple noises set to rhyme,
Each day we don an old familiar coat,
And step out on the stage just one more time.
We’ve learned to play our parts with style and grace,
Each line delivered like it was our own,
A finely crafted mask, to hide our face,
An ending for the play, we’ve always known.
If Pierrot should pine for Pierrette,
Or Cyrano should die for fair Roxanne,
What matter that our tears should fall, for yet,
We know it’s part of some celestial plan.
And thus, the play of life goes on unchanged,
Our choices, by the fates, all prearranged.

by R.W. Dean

There is a spark that hides somewhere within
The soul, that love will turn into a flame,
And if love’s whisper should, this fire, begin,
No longer, can the heart remain the same.

For love and reason never can exist,
Within the vessel bounded by the mind.
If love be there, well, reason won’t be missed,
Keep reason there, and love you’ll seldom find.

Sometimes the flame of love burns like a star,
That fills the heavens with unending light,
Sometimes, it burns the heart and leaves a scar,
Then drowns in tears, to leave us with the night.

But this you must believe, I would not lie,
In souls like yours, that spark will never die.

by R.W. Dean

How sweet, the song, her laughter brings to mind,
So gently sung, like Angel choirs on high,
Nor yet, on earth, its equal might I find,
Except within the sparkle of her eye.
Dark waves of night wash ‘round a face so fair,
Not even Troy can claim a finer prize,
Though flecks of gold, like stars, shine in her hair,
To echo sun-lit seas, that are her eyes.
Her touch, and gentle word, can bring the sun,
Tho’ storm-tossed night prevails when she’s not near;
I must awake, shake off the night, and run,
That I might kiss the hand I hold so dear.
How bold, my dreams, to wish for one so fine,
How sad, my life, alas, she is not mine.

by R.W. Dean

What force is this, that flows in ancient wood,
To make the buds spring green on gnarled oak,
While winter’s snow hides rocks beneath its hood,
And breath floats on the air like wisps of smoke?

How bold to dress itself in bright array,
As if to show the world a new-found youth,
Ignoring all the years that slip away,
To disregard life’s one eternal truth.

Does not, the force of time, treat all the same,
And bring us ultimately to our end?
What then, could cause this withered branch to claim,
The ravages of time, it seeks to mend?

‘Tis love it feels, there is naught else that could,
Renew the life, and strength, in ancient wood.

by R.W. Dean

Alone, I set upon a lover’s quest,
To find a soul that always would be true,
Someone in whom my love would find it’s rest;
I prayed for love, and then my heart found you.

With beauty like the sunshine after rain,
Or moonlight dancing on the meadow’s dew,
And something in your smile I can’t explain,
Together form the vision that is you.

How bold to think that my love might prevail,
With one who’s yet to feel the touch of age,
The picture in my mirror tells the tale,
A withered husk that holds me like a cage,

In perfect worlds, we’d love the one we choose,
But one should never seek to love a Muse.

by R.W. Dean

His hand upon the helm is tanned and strong,
It holds a steady course through sun or storm,
No matter if the tack is short or long,
Through bitter night, or day that’s soft and warm.

Though you may chart the course you wish to keep,
And choose a port to stay in for the night,
The helmsman’s hand will set the anchor deep,
And keep you safe until the morning light.

When seas, like mountains, build across the sky,
And storm-winds beat tattoos against the bow,
You’ll find your strength and comfort in his eye,
And in the steady hand that guides the prow.

Regardless of how far you choose to roam,
His hand upon the helm will take you home.

by R.W. Dean

Oh Dawn, bright Dawn, once more begin your flight,
On wings of gold and crimson cross the skies,
Come, wipe aside the dew left by the night,
With rosy fingers, gently touch my eyes,

Life’s course is like the passage of the sun,
That fights free of the dark, to start the day,
Yet scarcely as its lofty goal is won,
Uncaring time does send it on its way.

As youth fades into age, and daylight wanes,
Life’s bounty, like the sunset, warms my heart,
For those no longer here, the love remains,
Still, thankful for it all, I too must part.

As gently slips the sun, beneath the sea,
So life’s last breath, will one day slip from me.

by R.W. Dean

So young it was, and yet, the loss, profound,
Did strike me in my heart, and in my soul.
So heavy on my mind does lie the toll,
That evermore, in sadness, I’ll be bound.

Such joy was mine, before it came to end,
And happiness, where none had been before.
I prayed that it would last forevermore,
But soon found tears that wishes could not mend.

No chains, placed by my hands would ever be
A burden on this thing I held so dear,
Nor, had I known my love would cause such fear,
I would have done my best to set it free.

But love, I do, and will until the end,
And yet for fear of love, I’ve lost a friend.

by R.W. Dean

Once more, I’ve felt the warmth of loving part,
A cold, grey pall now chills a sky, once blue.
The love that beamed the sun into my heart,
Is now an empty window, with no view.

The golden hopes of summer now have gone,
Dissolving into fall’s chaotic hues,
And as the winter chill advances on,
My summer gold turns winter’s white and blue.

The landscape of my life is held in mist,
The future of my love, a twilight gray,
Though I can yet recall each cheek I’ve kissed,
Love’s brightest joys begin to fade away,

Still, love may come once more before I die,
To light my life, like springtime’s morning sky.

by R.W. Dean

A life should not be judged by years alone,
Nor by the weight of gold a man might win,
For gold may weigh him down just like a stone,
And years devoid of love will wear him thin.

The measure of a man must not be pride,
In accolades from sycophantic friends,
Though praise lifts spirits like the rising tide,
The rocks of truth await them in the end.

A life should follow laws of moon and sun,
And move along it’s course from day to day,
As though it’s not a race that must be won,
But rather, just a game that we may play.

And when the final sunset glows no more,
Step gently, with a smile, through life’s last door.