Where the passion flower grows
Lay down on your pillow
and turn the lights down low
let me take you to the garden
where the passion flower grows
Close your eyes and enter dreams
as love's emotion sets the scene
and flitters through the garden
where the passion flower grows
Touch the tender petals
of the flower as she grows
a tentative endeavour
as your feelings overflow
Let me draw you to the place
where ecstasy can be embraced
the beauty of the garden
where the passion flower grows
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poem by Charles M. Moore
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Sweet Valentine.
The time has gone and your'e still everything to me
to wake up in each others arms is all I need
and I can't catch my breath untill we kiss
so hold me now sweet valentine and make a wish
When dark clouds fill the heavens and it looks like rain
your smile brings out the sunshine and their gone again
how lucky is my heart to feel like this
embrace me now sweet valentine and kiss
I sometimes find it hard to sleep beside you as you know
afraid that if I close my eyes I'll wake up on my own
What nature of enchantment makes me feel this way
your beauty and your eyes and everything you say
what warmth of loves emotion fills my mind
just you sweet valentine, sweet valentine.
poem by Charles M. Moore
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Mirror of tears.
Welcoming home in a cloud full of torrents
passing the hours wondering where all the time went
browsing through pictures that make a career
of a man who looks back through the mirror of tears
Friends now all gone, enemies now forgiven
familys lost in the thoughts of the living
names now forgotten along with the fears
standing alone in the mirror of tears
Times in my youth with the sun at it's highest
I did what I did and I just couldn't care less
running through fire and all of the gears
no thoughts for tomorrow or mirror of tears
Reflection is simply just lights contribution
images made in an old revolution
that time still remembers but nobody hears
fading like dust in the mirror of tears.
poem by Charles M. Moore
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To the hero of toil
Another days labour for the man at the front
another days work of sweat and of grunt
of straining of muscle of tendon and joint
no praise for the hero of toil
Head down and end up as he reshapes the earth
for the rich and the mighty he'll give all he's worth
with the spade and the hammer he was handed at birth
no praise for the hero of toil
In the darkest of climates he'll give it his last
he wont mumble or groan, he's just one of his class
with the spit on his hands he'll get on with the task
no praise for the hero of toil
Where would we be if it weren't for him
our lives would be dull and our futures be dim
yet he still carries on while the rich sip their gin
no praise for the hero of toil.
poem by Charles M. Moore
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St Charles? .
St Valentine!
the Saint of love
makes me wonder why
surely he was celibate
and not that kind of guy
I'd rather see somebody there
who had a hundred kids
or at least could sing about it
like Barry White once did
or some romatic poet
who had given everything
I'll put my name down on the list
and step into the ring
you could make love on my birthday
it's a more convienent time
June the second's warmer
than the date of Valentine
then children would be born in March
the breaking of the Spring
and not in dark November
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poem by Charles M. Moore
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Back up the Hill
As I walked down to the river today
I met a man with no legs in a chair
we spoke about life and he stood tall in a way
as I walked down to the river
As I walked on I met a blind girl
who gave me directions just over the hill
for someone like me who was lost she could see
as I walked on to the river
Down by the banks I met a small child
whose mother and father had recently died
and he splashed around with a heartful of life
down by the banks of the river
As I looked in the river I saw a young man
a reflection of me if you understand
who thought he would end it as he coudn't cope
as I looked into the river
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poem by Charles M. Moore
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Agnes and Senga
Agnes and Senga
were born entwined
back in the summer
of June 69
everyone sighed
at these twin geminis
though Agnes was quiet
and Senga just cried
Though they were twins
they soon showed different tastes
Agnes liked some foods
that Senga would waste
into their teens
they would go different ways
as Senga liked nightime
Agnes liked day
Agnes was happy
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poem by Charles M. Moore
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Memoirs of another time
I scribbled the details
on every page
recalling the things we had done
what was said
and though we have parted
I still read the book
when we were together
way back in our youth
We met in the winter
while catching a bus
you were on your way home
and were in such a rush
your purse spilled the change
that was meant for your fare
and I helped you pick up
the coins lying there
The bus was quite crowded
I gave you my seat
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poem by Charles M. Moore
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It's a river
When the time keeps passing and the world goes round
and the sea is crashing at the cliffs and the sounds
erupting as the seabirds cry, you can watch the river
as the time goes by
And it's like it's holy and it can be hell
and you feel so lonely and you fear the smell
of the guns that fire then you see the light
of a rainbow dawning and you realise
that the river's flowing as the time goes by
And you met the people and you knew them well
and you said you loved them and you rang the bell
in the tree of life you watched them grow
and the world is turning as the river flows
The earth smells good and the sky turns gold
when the birds are singing and you bless the old
you can kiss your woman and it feels so right
as you touch the river as the time goes by
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poem by Charles M. Moore
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Another letter to fill the basket
Well I'm sitting here thinking
on a friday night
the television's rubbish
and I'm feeling uptight
I've tried to send you txts
but you turned off your phone
and I know like me your sitting
in the house all alone
We both got pretty crazy
down the pub last weekend
you said that I was flirting
you were eyeing up men
I still want to talk
that's why I'm writing these lines
I must have said I'm sorry
oer a thousand times
The letters I write just fill the basket
you know we were quite fantastic
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poem by Charles M. Moore
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