Love is in the turning of fear into ease.
One can take formula and write it to please.
That probable future that none of us own
Can be imagined and made in lovely tones.
In notes filled with summer and summer alone,
For whatever takes focus is sure to be blown.
It's artists we are and dreamers too.
We mold our earth's living so that
our dreams can come true!
We sculpt with our vision, we paint with our hands,
We weave the unseen into threads that expand.
From whispers of stardust to echoes of song,
We shape what was fleeting and help it belong.
The canvas of time is both fragile and wide,
With each step we take, the colors collide.
For fear may be shadow, but light still remains--
Love is the artist that softens the stains.
So dream, dear creator, let wonder take flight,
Turn sorrow to story and dark into light.
For what we envision, we breathe into form--
A world ever-shifting, yet love keeps it warm.
Love is aethereal,
A form spun amid breath.
When dreams are adrift,
It joins threads in the 'verse.
Threads found in thoughts,
Once launched into air,
Add fun to one's life,
In lives lived with flair.
For it's nature in action,
It's nurture in force.
It gifts care and affection--
Love's native to source.
It lingers in echoes
Of soft-spoken prayers,
A hush in the morning,
A warmth in the air.
It dances on sunbeams,
It drifts in the tide,
An ember in winter,
A hush at one’s side.
It shapes every season,
The bloom and decay,
It hums in the silence,
It sings through the fray.
Unseen yet unyielding,
It bends time and space,
In sorrow, in triumph,
It steadies its pace.
For love is unbroken,
Unmeasured in course,
It moves like the heavens--
Still native to source.
Sonnet 40 by Shakespeare, Reimagined
Take all my love, my love, take all you see,
What more have you than what you had before?
No love remains that you can claim from me,
For all was yours before you took this more.
And if my heart was always meant to break,
Then who am I to blame you for the fall?
Yet still I grieve the choice you had to make,
To chase what once you swore you’d not recall.
I pardon you, my thief with tender hands,
Though what you steal is barely worth a crime.
Yet love knows well what sorrow reprimands--
A wound from you will ache beyond all time.
Oh, grace that wears a dark and sinful guise,
Destroy me now, but love will not despise.
All rights reserved. No part of these poems may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, of transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages