david lessard Poems

I wrote a hundred poems,
to the woman I loved.
Seventeen years later,
she told me that she'd
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such a waste, to write a poem,
try and submit it, then see it vanish;
I only wish that there was a place,
where the one's in charge, we'd banish.
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In dreams
I reach
for things
beyond my grasp,
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Let it not be forgotten.
how much I've cried for you.
Let it always be remembered,
my love for you was true.
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A poet's mind is seldom still,
It fluctuates with mood,
and suddenly the words pour out,
flowing freely,
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Ma, everybody celebrates your day, the day of your birth,
The fireworks light up the night, every soul filled with mirth.
You were a Yankee Doodle Dandy, a yankee doodle dandy Gal,
The woman of the year, seventy-eight times in a row -
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Jazz on a summer's night,
Swinging sounds of joy,
the moon, bouncing in its flight.
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The poet is a writer,
for want of better things to do-
He/she composes rhymes and prose,
and then sends them on to you.
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The mist was in the meadows,
The sun was a rising light,
The roads were wet from rain,
that came down, during the night.
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The end of war is not so far away,
The Prince Of Peace is closer too;
Before we kill each other in this play,
We've much to learn and more to do.
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