HAPPY I'm happy when the sunset
HAVE YOU SEEN MY MUSE? Have you seen my muse? I think it's gone to China or maybe it's in England or even in the States. Have you seen my muse? I hate to be a whiner but maybe it is visiting with my poetic mates. If you find my muse please tell it that I'll feed it. Send it back down under here where it belongs. If you find my muse please tell it that I need it. Without it I can't write any more poetic songs. I don't know why it left me; I treated it quite nicely. I kept it here beside me, never left it in the cold. I don't know why it left me but I'd like to know precisely just where my muse has gone to and return it to my hold. SOUTH South, where the Alps, their snowy heads arrogant against the skyline, look down on the plains of wheat, grass, clove, each square laid out like a checkered cloth upon the fertile soil. South, where the nor'west wind sighs with heated breath, rattling the ears of wheat standing proudly, heads full and golden awaiting the harvester. South, where the Rangitata slides over its stony bed and the Opihi carries its treasure of trout to the baited hook of the fisherman. Where a bay named Caroline invites me to bathe in its gentle waters with the grandeur of Cook floating on the horizon beyond the plains. South to my home. |
HER MAN As the music plays she closes her eyes and gently sways. Memories come flooding, days of youth with romance budding. His brown eyes smiling, love unspoken, soft beguiling. Courtship with its joys, newly married, two growing boys. His arms always round her, trials and laughter, glad he found her. Children reared and gone, just him and her, sweet times alone. Grandchildren fill their days, watch them growing, learning life's ways. Now her love is gone, only memories to lean upon. As the music dies reality returns, light leaves her eyes. Empty house without her mate, Alone, lonely, this now her fate.
FEATHERED SINGER Feathered singer on the railing with perfect pitch that's never failing sweet notes to the ear impart sharing your unstudied art. Soloist or chorister, city bred or forrester, with golden notes and lilting strains warbling musical refrains. Though in green canopy concealed your elusive presence is revealed by fluid melodies and bars composed in ageless repertoires. At sundown your instinctive chorus provides an evening concert for us. Poor and dull the man unwilling to appreciate your trilling. Charming bard with yodeling voice perform your tuneful song of choice. Long may you whistle, feathered singer, sing on, sing on, joyful winger.
TO A SLEEPING CHILD. Little one, your innocent face in repose would fool the most discerning. He who knows your wild, waking ways would then suppose them but illusion watching your sweet, young face in dream's seclusion. |