A midsummer night-
in my sentiment,
My muse arose-
depositing poetry to task,
A contemplation obtaining shape,
Essence engaged in words realigning,
A spirit unconfined,
language assembling,
selecting words the same way-
as a trusted friend-
by my muse, I write.
(written by: Kathleen Stevens)
(painting by: Kathleen Stevens)
A midsummer night
in my sentiment my muse arose
depositing poetry at task,
with way of pen—
my contemplation obtaining shape,
my face against the wind,
my essence engaging in words realigning,
together with stillness of reason
and spirit unconfined,
mysterious language assembling,
selected in the same way as a trusted friend,
with my muse, I write.
When the night is dark,
And the moon is absent from the sky,
And a choir of crickets sings their own lullaby,
Where do you go?
When my arms remain empty
And the wind gently whispers my name,
And I gaze upon the stars,
Where do you go?
When my heart aches to feel your breath
And the warmth of your soul,
And the silence is heavy,
Where do you go?
When I’m no longer here
To feel completely alone;
Where will you go
Swaying to music
In perfect beat,
Lost in a world
Of sweet serenity,
Looking graceful
Like a willow tree,
Being blown gently
By the breeze,
She dances.
Beneath the shade of an old oak tree,
there sat an old woman
completely free,
humming and singing
an unfamiliar song,
with sounds so sweet
and words not long.
Her white sun-kissed hair
blowing like a running mare
on the tails of the wind,
and her tan leathery skin,
draped with a dress
vibrant in colors
and apparently unpressed.
A spell she cast on me
as I sat near,
how lovely, how serene,
with smells of sweet flowers
awakening in the spring.
A warmth filled my soul
as I closed my eyes,
how peaceful was the
never-ending blue sky.
I could stay there for hours,
no time was addressed,
I had no where to be
and,
I needed the rest.
A midsummer night in my sentiment
my muse arose depositing poetry at task,
with way of pen—my contemplation
obtaining shape,
my face against the wind,
my essence engaging in words realigning,
together with stillness of reason
and spirit unconfined,
mysterious language assembles,
selected in the same way
as a trusted friend,
with my muse, I write.
There’s a story on the island
of spirits in the night,
a special place where they go to dance
on the sand in the midnight moonlight.
You can hear them singing
and laughing
as they hide in the fog,
they play hide-n-seek and
ride the surf’s roll.
You won’t see their faces—
but they see your soul,
they watch you and hear you
as the island winds blow.
Their seaweed hair wet,
limbs swaying in the mist,
the moonlight gone,
as the sand turns cold,
they return each night,
it’s their favorite place,
well—that’s what I’m told.
Kathleen's Writings & Art 