By Vivian Gilbert Zabel
Gone
Little children play in the street,
Laughing as they hide and seek,
But none of them are you.
With sparkling eyes, smiling faces,
None of them are you.
No, none of them are you.
Other children's arms may hug me,
Their tender lips kiss me on the cheek,
But no more embraces come from you.
Others come to visit me at home,
Or I can go to stay with them,
But I never can see you two.
Dark curls bouncing on a small girl's head,
Brown eyes in a young boy's gaze
Bring memories of the you I knew.
Though knowing you are growing up,
Would no longer look the same,
My eyes search for you every day.
You're gone.
I don't know where you are.
You're gone,
And I don't know how far.
You're gone.
My heart beats 'round a hole.
You're gone,
And I'm afraid you're all alone.
Please, God, help me -
They're gone.
Written for two of my grandchildren, taken by their father in November, 1996, never seen or heard from by us since.
Scattered Thoughts
Empty swings swaying in the breeze,
While ghost children play in memory,
Bring thoughts of shining stars
Painted on midnight skies -
Laughter and happiness now
Disappeared into the past.
Dead leaves dance in the whining wind,
Scattering like children playing
Hide and seek on a summer's day,
As angry clouds shoot lightning bolts
Whizzing through the charged air,
A war of furious sound.
Rain drops drown tear stains on cheeks
Raised to the heavens in sorrow.
Questions too agonizing to ask
Cry in supplication for help not coming.
The why's echo without relief
With the storm streaming overhead.
Scribbled Letters
Memories meander through my mind
often, though, without lingering long.
Like messages written in the sand,
the tide takes them tumbling out to sea.
Some recollections, scrambled, tossed,
I can never clearly see or taste -
but a few burst upon my brain bright
with light that doesn't dim.
One such souvenir of time gone by
rests upon a wall, close to the floor,
not far from where I sit and rest,
a memento that brings a sigh, a tear.
For there in pencil, in scribbled letters
a young girl wrote a message of love;
she said those words were for me,
that I can never erase, never wash away.
How could I have known then
that the scribbling would be left
while the tide of life tumbled and tore
her out to sea and away from me?
Scribbled letters still cry out
the words she said she wrote
those many years ago:
I love you, Granny, I love you.
The "Perfect" Cup of Tea
Ahhh, the fragrance wraps itself
Around my musing mind
As I sip the bouquet
Teasing my taste buds.
The dark, golden-brown brew
Simmering in the heavy mug
Tempts my imagination.
While I listen to the winter wind
Whistling through the cracks
Hidden in the house walls,
I cuddle 'neath a quilt
Left behind by my grandson
And remember the love
We shared before that day
He was taken from my life.
The "perfect" cup of tea
On a winter night
Would be one shared
Once more with him.
----
These poems are copyrighted by Vivian Gilbert Zabel
After teaching composition for years and becoming an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ a site for Poetry, Vivian Gilbert Zabel produced Hidden Lies and Other Stores, Walking the Earth, The Base Stealers Club, and Case of the Missing Coach, found on Amazon.com.
Touching ♥
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