As the reel of past events
slowly does unwind
pictures and emotions
seem to drift like the tide
As the waves come rushing in
embrace the flowing light
take a trip upon the wind
like a leaf taking flight
Soaring ever higher
vision blooming like a flower
suspended in a tranquil mist
watching events transpire
Knowing you can't change events
a stunned witness you remain
muted as you shout inside
with regrets your soul is stained
Look into the future
with a heart that's burden free
don't take the past and wear it
just like Marley's chains
Make amends then move on
life is short you see
enjoy the days that you have
set your spirit free
Don't cry to me of hardships
we all have paid a price
everybody has a past
and another set of lies
The things I think that matters most
are the connections that are made
what the other has to say
When we meet eye to eye
on equal ground we stand
looking through the others eyes
Smile a lot and say hello
to everyone you meet
together we can re form a bond
we once called society
Like the sky.
Filled with winter rain drizzling finely
Waiting to be released.
Why on earth words of truth.
Became contorted into lies.
Lifted as haze over the morning stream.
Hovering as heavy vapour.
Weighing on her troubled mind.
The lady thinks.
Maybe much too much.
A timid touch.
Her gloves are violet velvet.
Streaked with stripes of sun's touch.
Not so long ago.
Oh so cute.
He was so damn cute.
She the dame, whose tongue now muted.
The lady for who,
His love for her, he disputed.
Was so vilely refuted.
Words spoken and wrote.
Fell onto eyes and the ears of the stubborn old goat.
Such spite shown.
Think she needs a drink.
He's making her sick.
Maybe she's mean.
Afraid she's not.
She sports a smile.
Masking the tears.
Sometimes she's mellow.
Sometimes she's not.
But rare moments of magic.
Such magic never will be forgot.
All she has left is a heart.
A beautiful heart vacant and hollow.
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
an analytic mind
this translates into an over-thinker
thinking that the small details that make this world
are all connecting and all crashing down among us
every potential gear slip
twisted metal in a field of flames
the no's spoken
the fists thrown
the off switch is gone. lost. broken.
living life is an instinct
not a thought process
but some voices are hard to silence
The small but ample cottage tucked in among the trees with large trees like bedposts.
A small hum of excitement stirs the air. The ocean kissed sea air moves past the cottage searching for just a peak at her.
But not tonight, the windows drawn tight, and still sweating from the warmth there by the muted figures in the flames.
Just a glimpse of her edges out from the corner of my eye.
And only she warms me in a way, that even now the figures in the flames seem less willing to speak her name.
With her heat comes a light, and with her light the words are more clear and the beauty of season more evident.
She is a muted flame edging out in the corner of my eye.
Kissing me quietly as she drifts off in to cozy corners of my mind.
Karl von Mecklenburg
This miraculous journey we call life,
has many strands braided together,
never forget what is expected from
the travelling monk, walking in front,
who'll break his walk to play with
stray street pups, eat, drink and sup
with men and women, of many temperaments,
who'd invite him to sit with them, even not knowing
who he is, or what mission moves him
through these dusty roads. There is something
that makes everyone not take eyes off him,
they'd say that, when he goes back on his way.
On the waves of emotions, he partake, he moves
like a paper boat navigated, by the speed
it all create, yet unaffected, except the empathy he keeps in his heart.
Hearing stories of this pilgrim in rapt attention
creating worlds fantastic inside,
learning things one never imagined before,
he travels with the wandering monk in sight.
What is more wondrous, once he thought
than seeing one's starry eyed lover's excitement,
showing a jewel she picked
from the riverbed of her short life
in a blessed moment.
She put it adoringly in to his mind,
a gleaming ornament that'd adorn him
though time would change that too.
Every thing experienced in this journey
makes one, the words of the monk prompt to act
and see the aftermath, take in the taste,
be it sweet or bitter or both,
odors and smells, the feel of things
a complex web, the map of inner life.
Never should one fail, to lend ears
to the tales of wandering monk
he is wisdom's child, patience solidified,
every tale has its color, smell and texture,
nature spoke, he experienced,
ages in muted tones speak
to him in the voice of the wandering monk
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood (unleashing lashing waves
that wash the stony structures clean with radiance that laves).
Deserted streets, once draped retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with sounds of words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life ( at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls, whist buildings, tall... outside the City, dunes...
they frame a frail forgotten tale, once written carved in runes,
with symbols strung like halos hung, reflections of the moon’s.
Though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise
the City’s now a sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos still aglow.
Steel chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
The footsteps swarm the church no more (apostates that profane),
and echoes in the nave ring thin, though chalice cups retain
a taste of brine, once altar wine decaying back to rain.
No face appears with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
or pray for mercy, grace, reprieve, or beg lethean balm.
Coiled candle sticks! Their iron claws no longer loom the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since night lit up, and innocence dissolved in melted tracks.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak .
The parapets... unoccupied, with neither voice nor crier
(no cantillation, belfry bells; no Minarets inspire) –
abodes and buildings silhouette their mirthless muted choir.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness meant to slate,
while lanterns, lovely high above, in silent swinging gait,
haunt ballrooms, bars, abandoned now, with no one left to fete.
The steeple tower, stone and steel, drab dagger in the sky!
Its hallowed hall no longer calls, when breezes wander by –
for filled with dread to wake the dead, it’s ceased to sough or sigh.
Sky’s silhouettes show no regrets, neath twilight’s silver shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap their spirits seep, a clutch of clammy clouds.
No things appear with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
there’s only hollow emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
The sun-bleached bones of those who shone are scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains.
But plaintive tears were never shed, for no one felt the pains.
The castle clocks unwound and blocked! Their peerless speechless spokes
unfurl in black the reigning Night, by spinning off her cloaks
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.
Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now phantom things on voiceless swings, like statues made of clay,
watch graveyards groom the marbled tombs, where grievers knelt to pray.
The terrors of a conscience fraught, no longer stalk nearby
to rip the shrouds from curtained clouds, frail fabrics of the sky –
the wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.
And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she sails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow shades of misty tears on sheets of shallow gray.
Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
are lying fallow, barren dust, where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a spade.
A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane –
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein –
the fruits of all the labour... lost... ’twas truly all in vain.
No souls appear with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
they vanished quite a while ago, beneath a neutron bomb.
Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
trill through my veins,
the cadence matching to that of your
drained ribs, vital with the tingle of
bristles. trill through my veins, trill through my
veins. let my anatomy be
It's been a few months
Maybe a few less than it feels
Since you ripped us; your head and our heart
The leaves have gone from green to vibrant purples, oranges
And other colours you couldn't see
Your funeral was nice, quiet, simple and not made a big deal
We didn't bury you naturally in the forest though
With a proud Oak above your head like you wanted
That made me mad, you won't live on like you should have
You were buried in an anonymous graveyard
Which held some importance to the people that knew you least
I visited your gravestone more than a few times
Everyone, the whole group and I have
It's a cold gravestone, more ornate that you would have wanted
That simply reads your name
Followed by January. 30 1996- August 17, 2012
The 2 words and 4 numbers that add up to 4063
Don't do justice, don't sum up your life quite right
At least in our eyes it doesn't...
I know you would have just wanted your name
Or nothing at all since they killed the forest you had in mind
"The tree will live on, I will rot and my body will be used
To create a forest, to create life"
Is what you always said
But you shouldn't be surprised by all I this like I am,
Like the group is
No one it appears, ever listened to your muted voice
Halloween came and people celebrated by wearing masks over their masks as you'd say
"The ghosts and ghouls and goblins
Are much better looking when people think
Their being clever and finally letting them down
Because it's Halloween and no ones paying attention because everyone's doing it"
It wasn't the same without you
Everyone came over but it was quiet and awkward
None of us covered our masks like everyone else
Rather, we all took them off for another night
Sitting around, talking, laughing and spraying blood on the walls
I decided I'd give myself a tattoo
To remind me of you and something you said a really long time ago;
Keep your feet grounded and so I did
An arrow pointing down on my ankle
Just as a reminder
I did it with a sewing needle in my room
While the group watched and provided expert commentary
They all wanted one but they didn't
I don't care if my parents find out
And I don't care if it gets infected
I did it for a reason and I'll stand by it
It'll kill my dreams of the military
You told me but I can't say I care anymore
My dreams died when you did
Puddles of blood, making the leaves red
A muted soft rain flowing
With sparks of stars
Blackbirds are shy tonight
Purple blotches on her face
As her lifeless body lay
With trauma on her face
I need to cage my mind
What did I do ?
My shades are always closed
Even though I live and die for sunlight
A crack that was made seven months ago lets in a thin blade of warm light
I am lashed to my spot every time this sliver slices into me
Its warm touch ignites countless, minute atom bombs on my otherwise frosted skin
Goosebumps massaged down
Then I am able to drop from the suspension
The heat from this light is quite muted
But as it passes over the frameless paintings
That have latched onto my walls
The varied colors melt and twist off the canvas
My ceiling has been leaking
Water is seeping through and spreading out
Always clinging loosely to the cracked surface
This skin has eroded and eaten away at the substance of my ceiling
Dissolving the embrace of containment
The water permits entrance to wandering and wavering lines of light
Marking the blue
Loosening my resolves
Making my insides feel aqueous
A tendril dangles down just above my head as I trace my apartment floor
Always stirring and following above me
But never dripping
I can feel its proximity as if it is always about to fall
In my skull
A weight has been amassing as the water has been flowing
The focus, in overtaking the restraint
Has played amnesia for my muscle memory
I snatch at a syringe and stab it into a waterfall of color
A painting that used to be a solitary woman eating an apple
Extracting the patchwork I inject it into the tail hanging above me
And feel deconstructed watching the colors stream
As the tail reels in and blooms into an array of abstract wonder
The painting of the woman
Though her colors had run, they all sat stubbornly on the canvas
The layers of pigment were either always of the woman
Or else never