Elvis Poems Two
With so many beautiful poems I've recieved, I'm happy to say we need another page
I hope you enjoy these as much as I do.
My special thanks go to JoanWest for sharing her wonderful talents with me and allowing me to share them with all who truly love Elvis, still!



Who Is This Man?

Who is this man who came to be>
The personification of charity?
Who is this man who was so much more
Than any other we have known before?
Who is this man so filled with charm
That the world prayed, he be kept from harm?
Who is this marvel of a man
Whose name was synonymous with love throughout the land? Who is this man who put God first
And we could never get enough of him to quench our thirst?
Who is this man whose name spelled “music”
And whose voice is pure magic?
Who is this man, that from his youth
Has always believed in honesty and truth?
Who is this man who made musical history
Whose memory will be handed down for posterity?
Who is this man who left an indelible impression
And as the “King” had no opposition?
Who is this man, that an entire nation
Would, wherever he appeared, give him a standing ovation?
Who is this man who will never fade into oblivion
Because his memory will for all time continue living?
The answer to these is as simple as can be
For they can only pertain to one, ElvisPresley…
By: Joan Buchanan West

Visions And Dreams

Centuries have passed...or so it seems
Along with my visions and beautiful dreams.
The trees don't seem as tall as they used to be
As I walk through the woods with only me.
The wildflowers don't "pop-up" in the spring,
Seeming content to spend the summer sleeping.
There are a few here and there and yon,
Butere used to be thousands down by the pond.
The fern that was so green, thick and lush beside the road
Seems to have said, "To heavy the load,
Not worth the effort to push through the earth,
Not worth, the effort...this spring..of rebirth."
Wild rabbits by the score used to run the fields in the morning dew
Now we are delighted if we can see one or two.
The changes wrought with your demise
As far too many for my pen or eyes.
But crystal clear and unchanged for all time
Are the sweet memories of you indelible in my mind.
Oh, Beloved Friend, how I yearn for those things tht used to be
When you were here and I could see
The reflections of your beauty in the fields and streams,
And I could once again have my visions and dreams.
Written by
Joan Buchanan West

Could I Borrow One Tomorrow?

Could I borrow one tomorrow, just one tomorrow please?
Could I borrow just one day...or even an hour and live it filled with past memories?
Could I please see him on stage once more;
Smiling and happy as the instruments ring out the musical score?
Could I please stand at the Music Gate, filled with delight
And gaze at his beautiful face as his car comes into sight?
Could I speak to him and hear the southern drawl
As he pulls away saying, "See you all"?
Could I stand in line from dusk to dawn,
On the hard pavement or even the dewy lawn,
And buy another ticket to see the "Greatest" perform;
I would not complain about the weather; sunshine or storm,
Or the seating arrangement, the lighting or the sound.
If I could please borrow one tomorrow and once again look upon him spellbound.
Could I please feel his touch, just once more,
Like the last time he held my hand as I walked out the door,
Unaware that I was walking away from a dream and into forevermore.?
Could I borrow just one tomorrow, just one tomorrow please
And live it to the fullest with my beautiful past memories?
Written by
Joan Buchanan West

The Search

Many years ago there was an artist and the perfect face he sought;
He had the most expensive canvases and brushes, but his idea could not be bought.
And there was a sculptor who ached to sculpt the perfect form in clay,
Later to be molded and cast in pure gold so that all who beheld it would say;
Such beauty, such grace, such flowing lines; the bearing of a king,
For their eyes would never have beheld such a magnificently beautiful thing.
They searched in Rome, Paris, London and all the isles,
Steadily they searched, resting at times, for only a little while.
Theywandered the mountains, walked the fields, and sailed the seven seas.
They hunted the alleys, the streets and all the lush green valleys.
Year after years they looked till they were tired and weather worn.
They were sure their eyes had missed nothing and they became forlorn.
Because within their hearts they knew there had to be a place
Where they could find what they were searching for; the perfect face
That would be worthy their time and skill.
They did not know that the place they missed was at the top of a small hill.
Until one day when they were on their quest once more
Traveling from town to town, up and down every shore.
They heard this beautiful music and thought surely it must be an angel singing.
Turning in their tracks, with the swiftness of the wind; not a moment lingering
They sped with all their might and strength, eagerly following the sound
For they knew at long last, surely perfection they had found.
Up the hill they trudged, mustering their last ounce of energy, knowing they could travel no more.
They knew their quest was over; the search was done when they saw standing at the door
What they had been searching for, low these many years;
Pure perfection stood before them and their eyes filled with tears.
At once they set to their task, but try as he may, the artist's brush could not capture what he could see,
Nor could the sculptor's most intricate work bring forth the magic, the beauty, the perfection of Elvis Presley.
Others followed in their stead and hundreds of portraits were cast aside,
As well as statues in an abundance; in them they could take no pride.
For no one, not even the world's best, could duplicate what God had done
And recreate, with paint or clay, His prized possession.
By: Joan Buchanan West

His Soul Is Free

From a two-room shanty to a mansion with 23 rooms
His life took us to the heights of bliss;
His death to the depths of gloom.
His beauty surpassed all the eyes could see,
Whether in bejeweled jumpsuits or a pair of dungarees.
H was a temple of humility and goodness,
And at no time in his life was he ever less.
Now we pray for strength for ourselves, for he has crossed the sea.
And thank God, his soul is finally free.
By: Joan Buchanan West





 

Updated
Saturday, January 9, 2010
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