Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 May 20 Yvonne Nice
Iska
The wistful winds
toss the waves up high
As the sea dare Try
To caress lady Luna’s sky.
 May 20 Yvonne Nice
Iska
The world is teetering
Tethered by a withered string
And gravity is pulling it taught

And now it’s crashing
Louder and louder
The shards splinter my skin
And rivulets of blood
Turns to rivers

You hear a sigh
Of relief
Of regret
Of release
As you find me
Drowning in a pool of my blood
A broken story
Old as time
You dream to live
I long to die
Looking into your eyes is like looking outside after it rains
There’s a certain peace after a rainstorm
And I feel that every time I look at you
You are the peace to my rainstorm
 Apr 17 Yvonne Nice
Iska
I feel so foggy
Limbs feel heavy
Thoughts feel thick
Eyelids stick
I don’t feel sick
So it must be ok..
No matter the way
Self medicate
To placate
This morbid mirror
This demonic fear
~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-Job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!


the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs


summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)


but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early


got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
 Apr 17 Yvonne Nice
irises
someday it will
come again.
someday someone
will come in.

a star
with the deepest depths in the eyes
with the gentlest of breaths
and endless soul in the smile

one day
i'll forgive this pain
not forget -
forgive.
we are all destined to love again, i am sure

— The End —