Calm they say before the storm
and day before night
stars in quantity
and light is never bright

all the will of man lays cold upon the ground
and in the vision left
I hear the single sound
of wisdom

granted to a man a woman
at his feet
while tired
and lonely
still the darken street

a bottle for a friend

a

blanket made of straw and in the midst of ever after I hear an angel call

no palace on a hill nor

daydreams to scream and in the time before the dawn I will take her in

What is the things that need to be

a voice opens up the mind a thought

no man sees

yet in the quest for better than

few but hungry see the blessings all a round

from street to climbing tree

a child in hope

seeks what he can not have

a man takes what he can

and settles for the bad

Woman chases bad in search of good

we are what we are most often understood

a trip to be a hero in side our minds

a

venture to the last of hope with faith tight in view

so well the voice inside the mind so great the solitude

cry or whimper what the same in risk and shadow

call wind and rain

feel the soul but we leave it all

in

graves with a name ours

they often say and in the last hours we fall to knees and pray

a feeble lot of persons silenced by our mistakes

ignorance washes the blood from a dirty face

help waits in place not

easily seen

and the girl is old who once was the dream

ideals and innocence a strange a failing lot

as the few reach for the haves and the have nots

The borderline between reality

how much is the window dog

what will it cost to send him free

no answer for the world has changed

in a place so far from right

close your eyes and hold her old image tight

her new form is cold as day is long

and in it you question right from wrong

No place to lay your head

no

warmth for your mind

few could understand those that could just do not have the time

so take the picture hold it well

inside your temper truth

cry a song for old age

sing another for

youth

a pittance is no a gash upon a fallen head

and bottle soft good brandy

are just like the words said

no want or need

is

ever with out place

and hues of love still can be seen

in the young girls face

Crash in tools of loss

and banners flying high

was it that you gave up

or did you just die

no love pure no knight on stead of white

no girl to give you love

in
the cool of summer lit

a empty feeling as you lay your bottle down

the bed is soft with lonely thoughts

her bickering voice rips holes in your soul

near you make a sound

love permeated deep in side

but body rejects

and the pride of self dissipates

to a lone

heart driven by a stake can you see the wind it takes and takes and takes

Half a man tempted shrew lays cold upon a stone

a shroud of life lingers but the grave digger has gone

home no night gown dances in his view

and the results of age have taken even the likes of you

pleasant is the farce that passes for life

as words decorate the stage

in actors face in makeup paste it fades

from

view the lights on edge fall

on what is left of two.

Bars and halls dance in merry way

and time kiss the death of just up
and walked away

Robin hood and maid Marry step into the cold

arrow from the Sheriff's bow laid them all low

The writer cries
the poet dies
the Baird can not sing
for

in the forest no longer is a dream

too real to young no hope all is done

words fade
stage is cold
last of footlight broke
no fever left in

the pen

blood will not write
the spirit has become
a victim of the night

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This poem held a lot for me personally, a reach inside to find pieces and present. I have a style that is different. It does not take to structure well, although I can in moments work that side of the street it is not my expertise. There is writer who is gifted in taking a work and bring perfection to it in both sound and vision. I asked Hetty for some help and she gave the work the structure some need to appreciate and understand. I am truly grateful to her for both her time and creation. I give you her wonderful version... Walt

Calm they say before the storm
and day before the night.
Stars cascade in quantity,
yet the light is never bright.
All the will of mankind
lays cold upon the ground
and in remaining visions
I hear the single sound
of wisdom.

Granted to each single man
a woman at his feet,
while lonely and exhausted
he still roams the darkened street.
A bottle for a friend,
a blanket made of straw
and in the midst of ever,
I hear forever more
angels call.

No palace on a hillside.
No daydreams for relief.
and in the time before dawn
I will take her, in belief
of things that need to be.
Her voice opens the mind
to thoughts that none can see
and blessings unseen, blind
now revealed.

A venture to the last hope
with faith gripped tight in view.
Loud the voice inside the mind,
yet so great the solitude.
Waiting tombs, names engraved
- our names, they often say.
In the final hours of life,
fall to our knees and pray,
confessing.

Ignorance washes the blood
From a lined, dirty face.
Salvation waits in patience;
In an unseen, shadowed place.
Ideals and innocence
combined in failing scream.
Few reach the unreachable
To realize their dream,
change their world.

Close your weary, heavy eyes
Her image tightly hold
Strain memories, right from wrong,
from the dream now faded, old.
No warming for your mind.
No place to lay your head.
Those who can don't have the time
to assuage growing dread.
Empty bed.

Take the picture, hold it well
inside for tempered truth.
Cry a soft song for old age,
sing another for your youth.
Crash in tools of love's loss
Sad banners flying high.
Was it that you gave life up
Or did life pass you by
- old, white knight?

No summer girl to give love
Sheets soft with lonely thought.
Bottle empty as your heart
echoes in a lonely court.
Hurt permeated deep
self-pride starts to rescind.
Staked, reduced to one lone heart
impaled upon the wind.
Blown, taken.

Now her new form, cold as clay
Reflects a bitter light
The old grave-digger has gone.
Work done, into the night.
How pleasant is the farce
that represents your time.
Like actors' makeup on stage,
a fading pantomime.
- Reveals truth.

Writers cry and poets die
the Baird no longer sings
Stage is back to being black
and reality now stings.
No fever found to pen
No pulsing blood to write
the words to decorate
the spirit of the night.

Calm they say?