SEVEN LETTERS TO GRACIE
My monday letter to gracie ,
Of the mondays on the shores which bear the borders of our feet,
Of each grain of sand now kept in the closed closets of my heart ,
The hours of the running grains , so tender yet so eminent ,
If to be known , to make an eternal walk across the shores ,
On the Mondays of our lives way back then when we knew not ,
Of our solemn walks , so solitary , yet so immensely paired ,
In the finest spring of our lives , so young , yet so learned ,
So learned , that we hath our brisk feet walk but slower ,
Thinking it may make the sands of time but eternal for a moment ;

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My tuesday letter to gracie ,
Of the tuesday mornings we spent in the parks of fair flowers ,
Soaking each hue and spending each drop of fragrance ,
Knowing not what was wilt , learning not what was whither ,
For ours were mornings so delightfully raised and read ,
And ours were evenings spent in utter joy of sweet orchards ,
But seasons , the learned say , they come and go ,
And we but ceased to behold the turning tides of time ,
T'was a mercy that we hath beheld what we felt ,
Raising flowers a plenty , to make it spring all along ;

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My wednesday letter to gracie ,
Of the wednesday noons we shared with the sweet orphans ,
Sharing the seconds with little palms and soles ,
Some bare and some seeking , some true and some dreams ,
Sharing the bright yellow frocks and the purple scarves ,
Finding hours in our days and minutes in our hours ,
But , the care takers , they said , time would take the darlings away ,
For with time bones grew and shoulders strengthened , always ,
T'was a delight that we never visioned this show of age ,
Being one with the orphans , we never grew out of age ;

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My thursday letter to gracie ,
Of the thursdays we spent at your poetry lessons ,
Reading and writing , what you called ' verses of love ',
And I , but only reading what I knew were ' hearts on paper ',
Watching the clocks die , as you rhymed , as you wrote ,
Watching the seconds being born , as you read , as you recited ,
But your teacher said , verses are not always read or sought ,
For there will be those , who shan't think more of your ink than stains ,
T"was a surprise enough that we were innocent and true ,
Reciting and singing your songs to everyone who passed us ;

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My Friday letter to gracie ,
Of the friday nights we spent at constancy gardens ,
Waving at the fire flies which descended from the sky ,
And we thought t'was the sun which sprinkled into thousands ,
When the moon set in and night they said hath indeed come ,
But we knew it was just another day when people could dream ,
But night , the wise old said was to be respected and not loved ,
For it could do much harm and darkness was never a virtue for the young ,
Alas , how ignorant we were , at those nights so beautiful and dim ,
But turning them into our special days with those lovely fire flies ;

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My saturday letter to gracie ,
Of the saturday evenings we spent on our roof tops ,
Gazing at the stars so bright and beautifulat night ,
Star which we thought were laid out for us to dance to ,
Of stars that were big , and those that were small ,
Of those eons away from us , and those that we seemed to touch ,
But stars , the romantics said were gifts to those who sought them ,
For ours wishes they said , were to be made when we had seen them ,
Alas , how happy we were , even without our roof top stars ,
For we thought , they were our wishes already granted , for us to see ;

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My sunday letter to gracie ,
Of entire sundays that we waited for another week ,
Hoping that the ephemeral hours of our days would repeat ,
Hoping beyond hope , time would go back to the first verse ,
So the verses may be written again till they vanish ,
They seemed so perfect and so much in love with one another ,
But our worst fears they said , days are never the same ,
With each day comes a different destiny, unknown ,
Alas , how wishful we were to see our week again ,
For we tried , we tried , we tried , to write the same verses again ;


Comments:
 
StarPoet   StarPoet wrote
on 9/23/2009 1:06:21 AM
7 letters of depth and poetic wizardry. You really put a lot into these and it shows.

Arif
Poetry
Other
writing Arif
" A LOVE SHE BOUGHT , FROM IT'S OLDEST VENDOR "
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