Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Anna Jordan Mar 2011
the pen would write
in modern light
a scribble of sentimental frippery
and the painters can
in the anarchists hand
makes prose into bold graffiti.

a pencil scribe
or desk-carved diatribe
a bitter note writ angrily
a lovers note, secret passed
prayers and hope encompassed,
words the weapon of beast and beauty.

a tiled wall
in a crowded hall
where quotes can swingvote cities
a stickered note stuck under seat
words of anothers in coda repeat
revolutions begun in paper graffiti
Anna Jordan Feb 2011
in Andalucia, past valley and dale
      run the golden, sunflower fields
      and a hut is a house that stands all alone
      ivy and flowers have overtaken stone
      and the rusty, old Santa Fe door
      and warm, pink clay floor
      this is the home I've seen these years
      a dream welded with passions tears.

      Climb the peaks of the Rockies tall
      off the edge, don't tread or fall.
      Hear the sound of the bald eagles cry
      the flash of summer lightning in the sky
      breathe in deep the mountain air
      come to my cabin, find me there.

      Home is where the heart is
      that is what they say
      dreamers dreaming escapes,
      every single day.
      I've built mine on the sands of my sleep
      water my gardens with the emotion I weep.

      Swim in the blue seas, fair and calm
      the salty air a warm, sweet balm
      feel the sand, clinging to your feet
      walk the golden expanse of a deserted beach.
      Find a hammock, swinging ever more
      who needs a key to a sunshine-built door?

      Roll in the grass of a swollen, green plain
      made lush after days of endless gray rain.
      Wicked sun, both hot and cold
      the breeze runs rampant, the fields unfold.
      Wheat meet Wood, tall and strong
      trees that grow, bows lush and long.
      Build me a palace within these leaves
      a kingdom of green amongst these trees.

      Home is where the heart is
      that is what they say
      dreamers dreaming escapes,
      every single day.
      I've built mine on the sands of my sleep
      water my gardens with the emotion I weep.

      Home is where the heart is
      that is what they say
      escapes etched in cavern walls
      in the sunlight of the day.
      Scribe a vision which never was
      plot it in the starry sky—
      Home; the dream, just because...
      it hurts so much to lie.
Anna Jordan Feb 2011
empty houses, pouring rain
listen to the news today
red coats marching, off to war
knock once left, once right
on a barricaded door.

empty the chamber into a platoon
read their palms in the ****** lagoon
sing sweet nightingale
night and day
“Here the bravest
of the fools will lay.”

Breath of life, a fleeting thing
who the pawn, who, the King?
Paper lanterns in the sky
wishing stars that live to die
promises from a lovers kiss
withdraw your soul, now remiss.

empty houses, pouring rain
have you heard the news today?
The birds are gone, the lights are out
silence follows revolutions shout.
Bellow bravely, cowards all
we will stand as the Empire falls.
Anna Jordan Feb 2011
words of promise, silent, forgot
empty days of passions knots
loop my fingers, tangle my hair
keep me close, just be there.
The world scares me, so keep me safe
as sundown ends, don't make me wait.
I see monsters in the dark at night
kept at bay by blankets and light
if I can't see them, they can't see me
but I must be careful they don't grab my feet.
You think I'm silly, that there's nothing to fear
but feel my heart, for if you know, right here
that is where the greatest terror sleeps
which gives me pause, makes me weep.
One day, it's over;— a dream to vanish in time
a dream I loved. A dream when you were mine.
Anna Jordan Aug 2010
I am in love with the words on the page.

Every emotion quietly engraved

yet read it aloud and get a twinge down the spine

echoing tales of heroism and love divine.

Magicians, the writers of the world all are,

wishers granted their desires by stars.

Their worlds are their’s and theirs alone

Every kingdom with a golden throne

Every planet with weather fair

Oh, how I wish I was there!

I am in love with the words on the page.

Each a history of a mythical age,

each a prayer for a new beginning and happy end

to every desire the words will tend

and I am in love with the stories they told

They keep me alive, they never get old.
Anna Jordan Jul 2010
What if the worst, what if it's not?
what happens when they find out
I'm caught...
what happens afterwards
and what yet to come
even as I flounder
I cannot run...

the game is been played
and it may well be the last move
hard to predict
hard to get in the groove
and a feeling of loneliness
so full of despair

I reach out for God
I hope that He's there.
Anna Jordan Jul 2010
I'm supposed to write of flowers
of the song that summer sings
and tell of ladies in towers
covered in luxurious things.
I'm supposed to talk of spring time
and the violets in the yard
the evergreen of the creeper vine
or the mystery of the tarot card.
I'm supposed to sing of perfumes
and the vibrant color in soft twilight
of rose and almond blooms
as they grow more lovely in the night.
But instead I find myself counting stars
in a sheep-less vision of sleepless rest
wishing on spheres of silent fury so far
to send me on some kind of epic quest.

Because, you see, the music in my life
soundtracks and the very like
have made the norm seem so amazing
that, cue the tune, and I'm ready to fight.
Against dragons or demons or wizards or harm
to win a crown of glory and charm.
But I am a nobody, in a nobody age
no Knight, no Princess, no Warrior Mage;
so don't ask me to write tales of which I know not
I am the Hero the world forgot.
Next page