Winds from the south blow over the hills, to move the paper around my room.
My poetry journal ribbon moves, as the cold wind makes it flutter and dance.
Green hills seem so close, yet they are so far away for I am locked tightly inside.
To the hills, I look hoping the cold winds will blow all the hatred from my heart.
Then the rain starts to show, and the window to the outside must be closed.
My poetry journal ribbon does not move to the beat of the wind anymore.
So, I stand up straight and walk into the rain and the wind so I can feel it all.
I say to the winds, “Promise me this. Promise me that you will take my heart, make it cold, and blow your love through me.”
Category: Poetry
Infernal Clues
Sounds of the sea
move through
many parts of me.
Down I go into the
place no one will go
to find another clue.
Infernal tidings come
as the gates of Hades
come closer to me.
Stepping one, two, three;
I go forward without fear
of the ghosts calling me.
Dreams
Once, we slept little
and
moved around often,
chasing ambitions
and
seizing the long days.
Now, we sleep little
and
haunt the nights
looking for signs of life
and
who we used to be.
At night we write
and
overthink the future;
in the day we sleep
and
peel back the layers.
One day I slept too long
and
peeled back your dreams –
the colour had
drained
from the images.
Where have our dreams gone?
Night turns to day,
Day turns to night.
Night and Day become
meaningless states of being.
Insomnia takes hold,
a cursed Monday child;
the moon loves them so.
Writing in the cold and quiet
night where dreams once lived.
Where have our dreams gone?
Dreams have taken over the Day.
Deconstructed horrors, terrible acts,
death and torture, our daily drugs.
Gorging on nightmares throughout the day,
wishing for dreams to stay in the night-
Far away.
Lavender Thoughts
Wind from the hills moves down,
moving across fields of colour.
Waves of the sea move through
the spring blossoming flowers –
moving, swaying, blooming.
A melody plays in the wind,
a song from the many birds.
Whispers of so many scents
dance in a poem on the wind –
melody, music, movement.
No Longer Young
Soft colours play in the light,
her figure once so near to me.
Scattered sunlight plays on my heart,
and her figure vanishes from my sight.
So near to my younger skin –
now, I’m so old.
I stand in the Satie sounds –
no longer young.
The Silver Spoon
An antiquarian silver spoon,
hidden in an old treasure shop.
A desire to caress the spoon,
to touch and feel the silver.
The spoon feels alive in her hand
as if she once touched the spoon.
An image of herself so unfamiliar,
laying down on an unknown sofa.
A dress of white adorned with
many light roses moving down.
A noise from behind awakens her,
as the book slips from her chest.
The spoon above her,
a flash of colour,
then cold nothingness.
Seeing herself dead,
looking at his face.
The man she already knows,
blood dripping from the spoon;
her fiance holds the knife.
The View
Condensation moves
My view of the world
Distant trees stand
Distorted by condensation
Wild wind whistling
Rain lashes the outside
Near and far from me
Whistling outside prison
Ceiling light reflection
Raindrops dance in my light
Outside, night creeps slowly
My view reflects only me
Condensation sets in
Rain running down, down
Outside is a dreamland
Rain, wind and whispers
My warm prison is artificial
My view, clear in my reflection
Free with no Freedom
we live in a nation-state
so many labels stuck to us
we move through the streets, stuck
there is freedom, yet we are bound
weighed down by thoughts and beliefs
so we aren’t free within freedom from and to
we live in self-constraint
The Lakeshore
a solitary figure stands on the lakeshore
lost in deep contemplation
the many shadows take her thoughts
feeling subtle vibrations
so many hidden details in the landscape
revealing differences within
the sound of birds singing their song
looking into her reflection
C & K 