Hands

The hands of power
are rough and dirty-nailed
and the hands of love
are often assailed
but never will they die.

The hands of love
are smooth and clean
and the hands of power
are always mean
but someday they will die.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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When?

When is my word a part of you?
Only when it is said.
For if you never hear it,
I'll know my word is dead.

When is my love a part of you?
Only when it is free.
For if you never feel it,
I'll know it's still with me.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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You In My Songs

I sing a song of love about you,
a lilting melody.
Its mellow tones are happy ones
when you are with me.
I sing a song of love about you,
a somber melody.
Its darkened tones are sad to hear
because you're not with me.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Song of Life

Enjoy your youth.
Too soon you're old.
Summers are gone.
Winters are cold.
Spring makes your heart sing.
Fall reminds you of just one thing.
That things of beauty fall away
And youth is gone before you can say.
Farewell.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Not Enough Time

In this short life
like this short poem
there's not enough time
to explore and roam
through the echoes
I hear in me
that reverberate continually
to live and write,
to write and live
and anything that's left
just forgive.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Facial Lines

Scour my face.
Brush lines away.
Pamper my skin
still youth can't stay.

Think young.
Never think old.
Precious youth
is just fool's gold.

For all that glitters
can't be kept.
The lines are from tears
that you have wept.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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tis Better

'Tis better to love, though in vain
than never love at all.
'Tis better to love, than to just remain
and never hear the call
of wild imaginings of the mind.
For without these thoughts we are blind
and life is always dark.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Jazz

Jazz and all that razza-ma-tazz
makes me feel brand new.
It never ceases to amaze me
what that jazz can do.
Takes me high.
Let's me fly.
Takes me low.
Let's me go
to the innermost part of me
where no one else can ever see.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Words

Words live on and on and on.
Never do they die.
They fill the ears of listeners
until they say goodbye.
Then the listener's progeny
hear them once again
as they repeat themselves like echoes
from the mouth or from the pen.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Melancholy Cold

The frost is on the pumpkin
and the scarecrows taken down.
The bleakness of the winter
is coming to my town.
The fowl are flying V shapes
to warmer climes than here
for the frost is on the pumpkin.
Soon icicles will appear.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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