Echoes From Ecclesiastes

Echoes From Ecclesiastes

by Stuart James Beall

The daughter of music sang to me when grinding sounded low.
Doors were shut in all the streets. At the voice of the bird, I arose.

My pitcher wasn’t broken then. The cistern held no fear.
Although I was a young man, the windows were not clear.

There is no pleasure in these years. The evil days have come.
Fear watches in the way, beneath the dimness of the sun.

The grasshopper is clinging to a loose silver thread.
Now the keeper of the house desires a long home for his bed.

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Remarkably You

Remarkably You

by Stuart James Beall
This poem was published by poetry.com and The International Library of Poetry in the year 2000 collection “The Harmony Of Silence”. It also won an Editor’s Choice Award.

Sometimes making changes requires a female grace
and seeing things more clearly begins with her embrace.

Until I met you woman, my flowers had no bloom,
my music had no melody, my humming had no tune.

The rain was only teardrops, and as I traveled on,
the road was leading nowhere, toward the glowing horizon.

Now the wind is whispering the love you hold for me.
I hear your laughter splashing on the surface of the sea.

Fields imitate your beauty, no matter where I roam.
Hills reflect your countenance. The sunset calls me home.

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Reflection on Rejection

Reflection On Rejection

by Stuart James Beall

Having offered my intentions, and made my feelings an affront,
feelings left me wondering … ¿What could cause this hurt?

Only care in back of it could move a body here,
where, staring at an empty room, inhaling stuffy air,
realization can slap you.
Realization can slap you.

As the Christmas gathering ended, young acquaintances lived on.
There wasn’t a name for the feeling I had.
It was here where I saw that innocent plant.

Its leaves were wide and shiny, obscured by evergreen branches,
and begging to be seen.

Beautiful, colorful lights, reflected back toward me,
inviting someone’s reach.

My hand reached down and pulled it from the place it waited.
It bore the name of somebody else. It would not accompany me.

Others left with gifts galore, but nothing left with me.
Nothing, that is, except for the memory of smooth, green, prickly leaves.

Imaginary refreshment awakened me;
as if with shiny, red, and poisonous berries.

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