September 1, 2007

Lit About Chicks

Her Eyes

by R.W. Dean

Her eyes spoke to me.
I listened, but did not hear.
The visions I saw were dark trees
and darker water, full of souls
with veils of Spanish moss.

Her eyes spoke to me.
I listened but did not hear.
I felt her breath, and the warmth
of her life upon my face, and the
touch of her memories in my mind.

Her eyes spoke to me.
I listened but did not hear.
Her scent filled my lungs with
thoughts of rain on fresh
earth, and sweat-filled fur.

Her eyes spoke to me.
I listened and heard a song.
The music pressed upon my
heart with gentle hands
that carved a future.

Her eyes spoke to me.
I listened, and heard love.

R.W. Dean was born in 1946 and grew up in New Jersey, about 12 miles from the middle of Manhattan. As a teen and as an adult, he studied music, literature, and natural science. He has been writing almost as long as he can remember, and he has always been grateful to the women in his life for the inspiration they’ve given him. He says, "I’m an old man, writing poetry about the most important thing in the world: love. We hunger for it, steal and lie for it, put ourselves in hopelessly embarrassing situations to get it, and when we do, we take it for granted. I hope I’ve learned from my mistakes." You can find more of R.W. Dean's poetry at his website, Lugh's Garden.