HOPE

Break free from the mirror of reflection.
Keep not restrained a heart in chains.
Canvas of memories painted on glass.
Pray not that glass of crystal.
Be so fragile, should it shatter.
Dissolve sadly into dust.

Dust from interrupted glass.
Now reincarnated into glass anew.
Blown from the sands of time.
Carried on the breeze.
Leave the lover of life.
Nevermore terrible luck.

Fight to loose ruinous recollection.
Break away, breach the storm with no devastation.
Let once reflected love become a fragile dancer.
Sweeping away the confetti of lost love.
Reflected in past tense.
By ladylivvi1

© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Just three years ago
this week, I found these pages;
poet's eye gives thanks.

love love me do
the reply, of course,
feed me tea and oranges
that come all the way from china,
meet by the river,
meet me by the marketplace,
meet me at
the railway station,
we'll pretend to be
strangers in the same compartment,
long lost
combat buddies,
exchanging SOS's,
duelists hidden in plain site,
you'll say I like that tune,
the reply, of course,
it's a memory I haven't had yet,
it's sad and it's sweet,
someday, I'll know it complete,
when I wear an older women's clothes

puzzled,
he will try to be impressive,
trading rhymes for freedom,
verses of hearses mourning distance,
but there are no secrets
the eyes can keep,
or others cannot read,
and if freedom is longing,
then these children are free,
not at last, but to long.

They are the
children of the morning
leaning out of windows,
looking for love,
will they lean that way forever?

there are twenty eight new moons
in the month approaching.

there is a reason for every day,
plus one.

sand castles get washed away,
but
dreams of waves and days
yet to come,
continuous and connected,
the cells and words
that transverse water bodies
built from the long lasting kind of
defiance,
the kind that states as its premise:

love can and should,
perhaps even,
will,
conquer the spaces
between the letters of their
exchanges and trade
whole words for
actions.

but what do I know, little,
for I am but an observer,
a driftwood beetle from another ocean,
a linesman of a different kind,
who only know how to hum
on a long distance line,
a single tune,
she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah,
an eavesdropper of their voices
that are neither muted,
nor common.

The cliffs totter as they fall into the sea.
Near silent cove hides secret rock pools.
Revealed  only as tide dispersed.
Scattered pebbles rotund.
Shiny, worn into seas virtual jewels.
Find sometimes a flattened one, an oddity.
Perceived monotone stones lay silent, almost sullen.
A scrutiny of eyes close up.
Reveal cold visage.
Hard cold features, static.
The young ones come with parents in tow.
Collect a few before they go.
Discharged duty of suffering waves lash.
Shower of rain will sometimes wash.
To a rockery in the garden those precious stones are relocated.
Memories of a trip to the beach perfectly recreated.
(C) LIVVI  2014

Sometimes the pen,
unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed,
in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor,
unbeknownst the existence thereof.
Yet knowing now
his contractions,
coming fast and furious,
eyes many centimeters dilated,
the sac's fluid breaks
upon the poet's tongue.

He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When the poets hand to mouth goes,
like Moses,
when he touched the burning coals,
tongue burnt,
the words are signaled,
freedom, born, released.

The words announce:
We are now created, conceived.
This new oxgenated atmosphere
is now our
final resting place.

This child, this poem, this exhalation,
once freed, is now
lost to him,

Its been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of
newly adopted parents as
"Ours."

So
when you hear the poet-man exclaim,
I live hand to mouth,
weep joy!
by, for and with him,
for his true meaning,
now clarified.

An ode to joy has
been birthed this day,
*a child for the people.