Her eyes, shine like the sun, soft as moonbeams,

Her smile far outweigh all the stars above,

Surrounding her is pureness held gently,

Like spun moss, silvery soft to the touch.

Not often a true beauty can be found,

She is wildflowers, a spring lake pure,

Surrounded by heaven and earth, calming,

To write of such as this, would fill pages.

This is music without sound or movement,

This is the dance longed for generations,

A melody never-ending such love.

She brings the goodness of spirit to task.

And yet, she does not know that I listen.

It matters not; this pleasure, I hold true.

__________

This came via a challenge to write a sonnet.

First posted here: May 2018

__________

For those reading, this is part of one

of two new challenges I've put up.

The woman sat in her wooden rocking chair,

Gazing up at the stars every night,

Appreciating their beauty.

She wanted them for herself,

So she took them down,

One by one from the night sky.

Soon the sky became

An unimaginable darkness.

But with the stars so close,

She did not seem to notice.

She also never realized,

How bright the stars really were.

The light grew too much for her,

And in the end,

They blinded her.

She hated the stars for this,

So she hid them away,

To never be seen again.

Now all she wants is to forget,

About the stars and their beauty.

So she takes comfort in knowing,

The sky will always be dark,

Whether she can see it or not.

Then one day she hears a voice,

Of a little girl asking her a question,

“Excuse me, but can you help me? I’ve lost my way home,”

The woman replied,

“I cannot help you little one,

For I am blind and cannot see you or anything around me.”

She hears the girl sniffle then say,

“It’s so dark out here, I don’t know what to do.”

The woman says nothing, and the girl whispers,

“I’m so scared.”

The woman feels a tug at her heart,

Knowing that she can help.

Will she forgive the stars?

The little girl continues sniffling,

And now is softly sobbing.

She is so scared,

Can the woman let her hatred,

Interfere with this girl’s life?

Finally the woman whispers so softly,

She didn’t know if the girl could hear her,

“Look under the porch for a jar full of light.

When you open it, the stars will fly free and help you home.”

Silence.

But then she hears the girl shuffle away from her.

The creaking boards say,

She is heading up the porch.

Then the creaks and pops move,

To the end of the porch.

Then the rustle of clothing,

As she lays down to peer underneath.

A little gasp and a pop,

And the woman knows the girl will find her way home.

The little girl giggles and yells a quick,

“Thank you!”

Then the lightly padding feet,

Are growing faint,

And the little girl is finally gone.

The woman leans back in her rocking chair,

Her head tilted towards the stars she cannot see.

Though she still hates the stars for what they did to her,

She realizes that she cannot hide them away anymore.

Otherwise,

How will those who are lost,

Find their way home?

Is such an intricate marvel.

Just sit and think for a minute how a small wriggling land bound creature with at least one hundred legs can go from crawling on the earth.

Being as undesirable to the human psyche because of the aforementioned to...

Absolute splendour.

Majestically and delicately designed.

Carrying itself like a monarch.

Going through a change which can be seen as nothing short of distasteful from our perspective,

A change so enthralling and encompassing to them (and if we as people understood that in some ways all life starts this way) as well as ourselves.

Once they make their cocoon they liquify themselves in a fashion one wildlife documentary describes as a “Spock like dismantling” - not paraphrasing but you get the gist.

Reassembling themselves.

Restructuring their very composition before reorganising and repurposing each atom in unfathomed ways that it becomes utterly unrecognisable as it’s former self.

A reshuffling of the parliamentary cabinet if you will. And the ruffling of euphemistic feathers so to speak.

So I wondered; has it escaped anyone’s attention that something so fragile;

Some sentient being which would die if we touched the wings (you know because of the whole powder on the top being the very reason why it’s supposedly able to fly);

This very dainty of creatures,

Is able to rest and recline so languidly on a rather large Scottish thistle approximating six feet or find respite whilst in repose on an impossibly wild group of nettles without so much as a rip or scar on its pristine composition whilst both plants have proven injurious to humans.

Let’s consider two matters of impossibility:

Firstly that shift in the composure of caterpillar to butterfly but to be able to withstand such harsh conditions with a dearth of thought or injury being the second!

Reiterate this to yourself.

Now understand by the very nature of the butterflies humble beginnings that being as this is an extremely impossible fact.

The impossible is not possible.

It just exists without challenge.

And is all the more resplendent for it.

A truly ingenious creation indeed.

By way of this fact impossible does not exist,

Rather there are a myriad of potential possibilities.

What a beautiful realisation and self actualisation.

@Danceinsilence # wayback challenge # longest most read poem # 9 months ago

There's something in your smile that makes it all alright, 

There's a comfort in your laugh that helps me sleep at night,

Something in your voice that gets me through the day. 

A light in your eye that keeps the darkness at bay. 

You are, most certainly, the sunshine in my sky,

And I can't explain my love for you, so I'm not even going to try.

You are simply someone that I cannot live without,

You are what makes me happy; it's you without a doubt. 

Submitted April 7th, 2017

Little bitty rain drops

Hit the metal roof

Ding, dong, ding

Little bit of lightning

Strikes the tree right by me

Clap, snap, clap

Little bitty duckling

Splatters water as he waddles by

Quack, splash, quack

Little sound of thunder

Bounces against the clouds

Rumble, shake, rumble

Little umbrella comes out today

No rain will ruin my parade

Splash, jump, splash

Little puppy wet at the door

Wagging his tail back and forth

Swoosh, wag, swoosh

Little child hides under the covers

As the storm hovers above her

Ding-ding, clap- clap, rumble-rumble

Little momma comforts her child

Holds them close and hugs them tight

Squeeze, ease, squeeze

Little kitty runs inside

Its tongue swipes his wet fur from side to side

Lick, meow, lick

Little storms blows away

The sun comes out hurray, hurray

Shine, smile, shine

114 reads 6 months ago

Fading memories blow through my hollowed out soul,

wrapped in echoes of tormented silence and pain

riding hot desert winds, past the crumbling facade

of a dry empty ghost town where tumbleweeds reign.

Like emotional stretch marks carved into my heart,

inky shadows lie twisted, and deeply embossed

in striations and patterns that spell out your name,

filled with acid-rain tears, spilled for all that I’ve lost.

When I let myself ponder the cruelty of fate,

the unfairness twists inside my guts like a knife.

Since you left me behind without saying goodbye,

faded gray shades of loneliness color my life.

In my dreams you’re still here, warmly sharing my bed...

then I wake all alone, with your voice in my head.

(from May, 2018)

Go across all you can, see no reason to return from whence you came from- I will write words that fly higher than blue drunken nebulas of stars . I will fly higher than any other man with boots that concur with the flightless bird, agree with the knives in the kitchen, and stab the nameless chicken. Go all around your busy room ;bust out your laughing clout. Go all out I remind, for the breathing tank behind my fine corpse, follow rules which go along with locomotives of time; going all out for the sake of: slapping brownish dust across your heavy eyes, sparking skies over grey hair, and filling the air with nameless animals.

Continue to do as the words entail, follow them as a sheep does his shepard.. he may wear grey or torn rags that slide- do not seek its depth- openly in homely fields. As previously stated (go all out) in the graph above, do not limit the day to one corner (please!) I yell consciously with hell, she trembles like dust thrusted by quakes. Chase the cars, grab the rusted handle ; aged with hatred that sprouted ages ago. I will roll down the hill, and so will you, if you bothered to do as your were told.

The words of the books enlighten, words which have meaning.. O so many meanings... how come they can’t name themselves to me, when I meet them, they’re so powerful... when they walk they waver. Forgive me for my stupidity, I haven’t learned how to write compelling stories that will follow the shadows of my audience, forgive me if I break rules, I don’t want to violate your trust. I mean only to make an intricate writing without characters that you will soon forget. Onward! Let’s continue our diving, and soul search the intimate corner that I delve into everytime life swings Thor’s hammer at me.

It returns with the might of an angry woman, and the brows of an angered man. I hope.

When I lay my head against my tomb, I awake the divinity of the course of time and reality, reason with me as I would with you or your mother would. Lunatics splash razor sharp thoughts from across the streets, alleyways, and shops. So do I. Accept I am writing it out to be seen and not wondered about by a psychologist. If you remember the message of each paragraph then comment it, run and see seas.

Back on the Mountain top we will scream far away from any other person, we will remain not because the cold suits us, but because the nature of the Mountain top is endearing. We want screens which have lingering light well into the night that calms us with delightful sounds... Stress bruises our lungs worse than any thing that I can do toward myself... Anxious not only to love but to allow love to find its place within all of us... these characteristics may not suit you but suits someone and that’s what I hope. I know music sweetens life’s moments... but they ring sadness through the epicenter of destruction; our hearts. Does that closed door need to remain locked? What haunts you may not haunt someone else, but it shouldn’t keep you locked. Run after that steaming locomotive that yells for adventure in the low plains. Go all out, when you fall into that stange malaise, conquer it. Go all out for the future that splits into many timelines, one for happiness and another saved by Dante.

Remember one thing more, and that is my fiery stupidity, do not allow it to grasp you. I only apologize because I know that I’m going nowhere with these graphs of intricacy, my intrinsic abilities are limited.

In short run freely, think freely, and listen freely.

A prose poem Posted December 2018 for a challenge to paint a concept.

(repost)

In this place

I am sacred

Where the wheel turns in absolute measure

Celebrated are the seasons

Those things that I can touch and taste and feel with my hands

Taking pleasure in the profane, the mundane things

How rich the verdant earth is in her treasures

How everlasting is her graciousness

To host my body

The mortal vessel wherein my soul resides

For a time or until such time that I am free

To be all things or no one thing at all

To exist as part of the circular expanse of energy

To give freely of myself in ways that flesh and blood do not allow

And still to be of the earth from which I sprang

As Aphrodite from the foam of the sea

Into her waiting arms

The mother who cradles her children from birth

Nourishes them with the fruit of her bosom

And holds them in her embrace when death has separated the spark of life from the body and spirit.

I am sacred

In this space

Because I am of this space and it is of me

*Originally posted 3 years ago*

I felt peace in your presence.

Our molecules belonged there

side by side

touching and bouncing off one another.

It felt like fusion.

Calming...each to the other,

the air between us seemed

to spill all around, and dampen what

we breathed with trickles of possibility,

rivulets of dreams and plans

The grasp of your hand, awake or asleep,

pulled me to your reality.

The solidity of the moments

we shared still prove to me you were real,

we were real and true and we were love.

It was the purest, easiest flow of connection.

Afraid of heights, this self-made outcropping felt safe.

Our view from there showing only us

holding onto the richness of the air between us,

because it held it’s own life.

It all quivered. Electrified with familiarity, and

knowing that this wasn’t new as

we’d come this way before and were back.

Nothing sparked more than us.

It was lit up like the stars and the moon of that night.

Then fear took hold, and overrode all logic,

and all of the knowledge the atoms had.

They knew...

They knew we were put there to feel the lightning again,

but fear was stronger than nature,

stronger than I could be for both of us...

You left with my moon and stars slung over your shoulder,

leaving my skies dark once again...

December 2018

The hardest thing in life

is the last tears we shed

when we say goodbye:

when one is unwillingly

forced to part ways

without wanting to part ways

from the heart, as our eyes sadly cry;

because you’ve held to

this fairytale, this lavender hope

that one day, everything will be okay,

a spurious dream that plays in your head:

when in fact, you’re just being led

into a rabbit hole instead;

so with all your might

let those droplets of tears fall

for the last time

for you’ve got a mockingbird to kill

knowing in the end, goodbye is inevitable

and a necessary evil. 

Posted February 2019