Poems by Ron

Poems by Ron

Just a Poem for tonight. The Darkness.

~ Ron Walker ~ 14 Comments

The Darkness…
The darkness of night hides our tears,
And moonlight makes our soul long for times forgotten…
The wind calls softly through the trees and brush,
And bids our hearts farewell.

Yea though, a walk on a cloudy night with the mist in our face,
Can bring forth longing so bittersweet,
As to make our eyes well up, with tears unbidden…

Where can a heart seek refuge from memory?
Not in the night,
For the night calls to us on a primeval chord of sad rhapsody…
And without permission, or hearts respond,
Robbing strength from our soul.

The darkness of night hides my return,
To a place of special memories…
Retracing steps taken in a time past, bringing forth sweet recall.

In the darkness we hear voices,
And feel the breeze upon our face…
In the darkness, the feelings return…
But only in this place.
And when in spirit I return, and stand upon this ground,
Will she be here, with unbidden tears…
Will she hear me in the sounds,
Of the darkness…

Ron Walker

A Poem for May. The Sounds.

~ Ron Walker ~ 21 Comments

The Sounds…

In this hustle bustle world, that we live in every day…
We tend to never hear, what the things around us say.
Some are soft and subtle, and some are hardly heard…
Like the opening of flower petals, the breathing of a bird.

Sitting alone and being still, I’ve heard more things I know…
Like the play of pretty leaves at night, the sighing of the snow.
The whispers of the breeze around, the tinkle of the rain…
If you ever learn just what they say, you’ll never be the same.

To all they speak of different things, it’s up to us to hear…
They can speak of love, or happiness, or make us think of fear.
I listen to them here at night, and think of all that’s past…
And when they speak to me just right, they help the memories last.

So rain is not just falling down, it’s giving to the grass…
And ice isn’t just for feeling cold, it can decorate your glass.
The wind means no real mischief, when it’s playing with your hair…
It plucks from you your fragrance, and tell others you were there.

The flutter of a small birds wings, says “Catch me if you can!”…
The call of lonely wolves at night, when they are speaking to the land.
Springs flowing down the hill, seem to laugh and dance around…
They caress the rocks that linger there, and make a chuckling sound.

So when you think it’s quiet, because the hustle and bustle’s gone…
Just relax and try to listen, for hidden are the songs.
And when you learn to read them, and savor everyone…
Is a time you’ll put to music, the setting of a sun.

©Ron Walker

Just what is a memory. Do we really know?

~ Ron Walker ~ 12 Comments

Memories

Just what is a memory, can you tell me what it’s like…
And if you hold it long enough, can you see it in the light?
Are they cold, or hot, or in between, are they heavy to the touch…
To be such fragile, elusive things, who would think they’d hurt so much.

For everyone, a memory, is made of many things…
Some are joy, and some are sad, and some make lovers dream.
Hot and cold, some shy, some bold, they keep us company…
And when the night is very still, some times they help us see.

They serve a purpose in our lives, they keep our hearts on track…
They help us look for days ahead, and help some not go back.
And when you can no longer touch, that which your heart desires…
You always have the memories, they burn like signal fires.

For some they have a color, be it blue, or black, or gray…
And some are kept in tender hearts, as the smell of a special day.
Of rice and song and special vows, they bring forth times gone by…
Of gravel crunching beneath the wheels, and wreaths that make you cry.

So Just what is a memory, are they whispers of where we’ve been?…
Are they here to keep us company, or remind us of a sin.
Do they hurt, or heal, or tear hearts down, I suppose there are all kinds…
So try to make good memories, since they live within our minds.

So when the sun, has gone to sleep, and evening begins to stir…
The wind blows soft, the stars are bright, and memories are heard.
You hear them calling out to you, and tugging at your heart…
And if they are the happy ones, no tears will ever start.

My memories are flavors, I’ve tasted every one…
Some were sweet, and some were not, and some still on my tongue.
I would not trade a one of them, I’ll love them to my grave…
For in my heart they burn as bright, as the day that they were made

© Ron Walker August 1998

We had a gathering and cook-out of friends and family at our place located in the country. There was conversation around the fire, about all kinds of memories everyone had. Memories of school, growing up, lost loves, and those that had passed that we had known. A few days later, while thinking back on the cook-out conversation, I decided to write this.

A Poem for this week. “Our Time”

~ Ron Walker ~ 14 Comments

Our Time…

Be still my darling, and hold my hand for me…
The sounds are getting quieter, and things are hard to see.
I’m not afraid, like I thought I’d be, though I see you’re weeping so…
If it were in my power, I’d be the last to go.

But mourn not for my passing, rather think upon the day…
When we shall stand again together, and I shall touch your face.
So in the nights that feel alone, and you need me to be there…
Go to where we used to meet, where once I touched your hair.

Look upon the heavens, and try to see our star…
You know that I’ll be watching you, I’ll never be too far.
And when the cold winds blow your hair, and mist falls on your face…
Stand and whisper to the wind, “I love you” from our place.

When your time to meet me comes, and things are hard to see…
You’ll feel my hand, and hear my voice, beside you I will be.
Silently we’ll walk along, the paths we used to walk…
And forever in the soft night winds, together we will talk.

© Ron Walker December 1998

This was written for a friend that had just lost his wife. They were an older retired couple, both had been physical therapists. She had suffered a protracted illness. He said towards the end, she was always telling him she worried how he would do when she was gone. After her passing he asked me to write something for them since I knew them both. I wrote this, I told him that it is what she would probably have wanted to say.

Comments always welcome,