Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Heard today of the demise
of a couple elderly 78 and 73
caught in the malestorm
of a bushfire, unable to leave
the property they had  lived on
for more than 50 years...
they took shelter in the house
he built...only to have it become
their pyre ..they were found together
There is  poetry in this, love passion,tragedy, darkness and despair
and though these word do not come anywhere near describing the situation, it is my belief that these two people deserved some words written for them...
May they rest in peace...
There have been terrible fires in New South Wales over the past month and whilst 45 houses have been lost, there have been few tragedies...our firefighter's have been working night and day...this elderly couple was found today...in the burnt out shell of their home... May they rest well in each others arms..RIP
rain upon roof,
gentle falls,
creating a cocoon
of humid heat
in which we sit
mesmerized by;
the soft sound of
rain upon roof.
~for she who will know~

the Mother of Muses came to me

on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart

we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse

to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.

all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing

see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime

We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End


11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
there is almost always a poem in the simple, where true art awaits your
sculpting...
betterdays Sep 16
it is the frayed string
of hope
that sustains a shattered
mind
hope floats,

a little walnut boat
set upon the darkest  of seas

hope sees the dawn in the
deepest part of the night

hope sustains
hope maintains
hope remains
hope endures

that ember of grace, that ember of grace
endures, ever-ready to be coaxed into a flame

sometimes hidden deep within
but never absent, never absent
always wanting, wishing to be found

awaiting planting in fertile soil
taking nutrients in growing,
stabilizing  fragile ground

hope is life
life is hope

hope is knowing both flower and ****,
have purpose, that of both we need
flower for joy,
**** for silent comparision

hope loves both,  gritty or beautiful  
have place within a heart willing to grow
for as it has been said before:
by poets far better than me.

you do not see the dawn,
with out the darkness
of the night...
betterdays Aug 18
there is something truly
enticing, about the curve
of  back, as you sit
on the edge of the bed,

lost in that moment between
being  abed and rising
that delay, whilst you decide
yay or nay, to the day.

there is a challenge in the
***** of shoulders
and the swell of good eating
that rests upon your hips

that makes me want leap into action
and draw you back
from the edgeof mundanity,
of everyday routine
and ravage you silly,
make you howl
and make you moan..

i want to taste your sleep drenched skin
and feast upon the energy kept quiet
i want wake you, make your open eyes
make your pupils dilate,
as i drink the night out of the depths of you...

but I am to slow, in my langour
i have lost the moment,
you stand and stride off
into the day
i turn and lay on my side
hoping the sun will leach
the frustration from my being
betterdays Aug 9
so very busy
not doing much
just living a life
on the edge of a crust

cold weather
makes  me sleep
seems I am powered
by solar rays as I reach
my latter middle aged days

but all is good, all is fine
as I pour  another wine
grab a book off the shelf
settle in and read
for my health.
betterdays Jul 14
here in the little wee hours
on the night so cold
my toes ache
i sit pondering
life and such
by the light
of fire and tablet

wrapped in blanket
threaded with memories
i think nonsense and ingenuity
and watch cinders fly

on the hearth the dog and cat slumber
wrapped around each other pretzel-like
defying with casual snores,
both physics and laws of natural enmity.
there is an ease to their bromance
that both confounds and humours me

behind me spreading on the couch
like slow(very slow) moving lava is
the surf god, encased in flannel and ugg
he gargles breathe like an old Harley
soon I will escort him to bed and leave
him to the embrace of his new lover
Madame Cpap...and they can share
a night of slumber in a wind tunnel
then in the morning , he is mine once more

the golden boy sleeps elsewhere tonight
having come into the season of sleepovers
he resides in a tent,  in a bedroom
half a suburb away ,oblivious to
the sound of stretching apron strings
he too shall return to me tomorrow
older and with new cultural references
to share with his increasingly
dim witted parents

for now, in the wee hours
i stare at the cinders
and see the old man as younger
and the boy as babe
as my toes ache
and my eyes leak
just a tad....
Next page