Five Poems by Maria Downs

 

AN IMAGE OF HEAVEN

So rests the golden lull of twilight

when the amber dusk folds,  whirls,  

as the mighty wing in flight,

when all descends to rest asleep -

the roses,  peonies no longer in all their array,  will peep.

 

When the humming bats emerge

shelling,  their beats at the nocturne birth,

the moles badgers surrender to the moon – glare,  of night,

where all things hum,  take flight,  

in the dark  but silver – lit,  delight.

 

So,  as tired hands will feeble grasp,

at those moments met,  where the spirit floats aghast -

for the soul to befriend -

to descend to the depths,  whisper within,  

to the frail heart that breaks,  only to mend -

though the colours of day will take their place,  

amidst the silent dream,   of far away,

and your weary gaze can no longer see

the pageant of each rainbow’s way.

 

The soul will know of each rose with a thorn,

the mind will long for tomorrow born,

yet to swell,  as the river’s rush to the sea

to know,  enjoy the beauty still,

sweeping perfect,  within each spirit free.

 

Enflaming endless,  as each song of the land,

the vision of all life,  that timeless spans,

so wise of long ago past,  to wonder still upon all,

flowing,  as the waves upon your hand.

FORGOTTEN WORLDS

 

Times enamoured,  but to speak of the dawn,

where the mind remains,  at peace,  with only

the nightingale of the night,  that still lullabies,  forlorn,

 

where the grace and ease rests,  recumbent,

as the imagination dreams,

as the cocoon idyll,  where words remain,

as dormant,  as this waking sleep –

 

so the heart pines,  for this release, 

of song – like,  refrain,

to always outpour,  as the inner voice implores,

to utter no more,  those words of woe,

but render the soul,  that in giving,  takes hold

of this still solace,  where the rains fall,  not

and only the faint,  distant strain of winds,  are heard

far out,  upon the lonely,  moor.

 

So,  the mind captures,  this close hour,

as a fragrant rose,  within the leafy bower,

leaks its dewdrop scent -

when the mind remains still aware,

of the pure clear waters,  that flow -

each voice of innocence.

 

Bequeathing no gift,  save,  within this realm of bliss,

where each mood colours,  

each phrase,  each plaintive tone,

as the heart’s melody,  that will endless yearn,

will always,  miss

 

those remnants of love,  that endure

within the memory,  

though they be distant and obscure,

as those falling leaves,  in all their hues,

at autumn’s wane,  are swept away,

those embers once,  aflame,  

spark no more,  in the fireside grate –

 

only the mind,  within this hushed idyll,  so fair

lingers still,  sensing your soul,  as hushed,

as the rose,  that rests,  as those silent voices,

that speak eternal,  there.

PEACEFUL BLISS TO PLACE

 

The ocean calm,  the nurturing warm,

steeped,  in an oasis of light,

so,  drifts the tides,  that upon those shores,  rim

fading into the dim,  of night,

 

while the moon oversees,  this mystic dream,

with her rounded halos,  glow,

pulsing its beams,  its frosted rings,

that echoes a silent resonance,  across the seas.

 

Quiet,  where there lies no sound,

distilling,  upon those waves,

rupturing the very motion,  that sways

upon those waters,  of silver,  bright,

 

as these ripples merge and fuse,

into a mammoth deluge,

of the silent deep,  where nothing disturbs,  this sight

like the peaceful sleep,  that each soul needs -

the chasm,  that invites

the heart and mind into a reverie,

breathing slow,  to care,  as those cool,  moist climes

of that sea – spray,  air.

 

Healing the body,  restorative,  in its grace

to hold,  as wholesome,  

each human heartbeat,  that paces,

like the regular,  drum beat roll,

of the loyal,  moon white face.

 

Living as a gypsy wild,  of loose,  imaginings -

the intrepid soul of valour, 

that knows of rest,  to bring,

the mind,  to its still,  calm centre

 

where no voice,  nor touch,  may stir to enter,

into this realm,  where love remembers,

that the rose in each,  blooms but,  to die

as you escape to your dreams,

the realm of fantasy,  light,

 

relishing now,  those hours,  left,

those days and years,  to cherish,  not forget,

this essence of wonder,  as those seas,  that call,

the heart and soul,  to that lonely,  shore.

RICH VERDANT GREEN

 

The sweet scent of lilacs and roses,

leak their fragrance,  upon the air,

layering perfumes,  intoxicating,  in the sunlight,

where lovers serenade,

waltzing,  under the azure,  blue fair,

 

so rests,  the apple grove,

where the little birds chirp,  their songs of love.

 

The lattice frames,  those roses famed,

to hold captive,  the heart untamed,

in all its wildness,  where romance,  runs free,

as the wild stallion,  that for a mate,  

scales,  the seas,

 

while small neat,  seats rest,

in the shadows of the tall,  chestnut tree,

amidst this ancient folly,  a secret retreat,

for escaping souls,  from the humdrum,  city streets.

 

Those days so clear,  to see for miles,

where small children hop and leap,

over the river stones,  over the stiles –

 

butterflies flit,  in the nearby,  shady glades,

with bright,  red and white wings,  

that hover so swift,

above the hedgerows,  that fringe,

the small stream’s meandering,  way.

 

Edging full,  bursts golden gorse,

that dot each bush,  shrub,  each little copse,

where other trees,  too,

rustle their felt – washed,  leaves

creating each thicket,  where lilacs still prick,

with their candles,  of purple hue.

 

With the coming of sun,

hunting birds glide,  in the skies,  for ready prey -

the golden eagle soars,  supreme,

in its victory,  espying,  each hare that plays,

 

while the west,  wind invites,  at last,

the weary sun to set,

travelling over the lands,  

carrying its melting heat,

towards a place,  that no soul,  forgets –

 

the land of dreams,  of peace,  of sleep,

that beckons the life just,  to die,

but for moments,  amidst this Nature,  thrust

until another dawn,  will bring the sunrise.

ROSE

 

Like a frail-lit,  flower fragrant fluid,

is the rose so pink semi-lidded.

Like the pale ashen eyes of its hidden,  painting

are the flourishing petals,  so pure untainted.

Puckered piled in layers high

gathering,  sealing peeping high,  at the sky.

Showing much more than love ever could,

through their curling stalks leafy shoots,

twisting twirls shredding stems,

the icy thorns lime-green,  hems

of its dim –dressed,  folds reflecting life the soul.

The blessed secret is so kept soft endowed,

with love’s magic weapon the passion’s renown,

from the greatest romance so noble chaste

endeared,  made eternal,  through a beautiful face

spanning years,  till at last asleep,  in your restful place.

 

Maria Downs - Has been playing the piano for fifty years. She a has painted over 150 artworks, of garden scenes, moorlands and seascapes for fourteen years and has been writing poetry, concerning Nature’s realms, the universe and the soul,  for forty years, writing over 2200, verses.

Maria has lived in Lyon, France, studying French and in Florence, Italy, studying the history of art, musical drama, history of Greek theatre, aesthetics, Italian language  and classical music with emphasis on the composers, Robert Schumann and Debussy.

She reads excessively and now, mainly loves writing her verses, reading biographies about interesting gifted people, playing upbeat pop music, easy listening, and Motown, Rhythm and blues and Soul music on her piano. She loves to read, a genuine “good book”.