Black Book Poetry

Black Book Poetry Apr 2016

truly? truly,
you know not this weight,
this affliction cast upon my weary heart.
and, truly,
if it were a fate
by my own choosing,
your cedar eyes
would be near mine
and not at the demise
of parting;
and the wistfulness of
your kiss,
the bliss that you bestow,
would not be
far away.
truly,
I have found peace
in my despondency.
for these sullen skies
hold feeble cries
but they do not
tell not our fate;
so onward we press,
while you bid farewell
and I give my heavy heart
to no one.

#love #sad #heart #heartache #farewell #blackbookpoetry

Black Book Poetry Mar 2016

a lover's departure

darling,
do not not know
this weight you cast
upon my weary heart?
are you a stranger
to the ache
of a somber mind,
or a soul that
withstands defeat?
truly, darling,
you are foreign
to this animosity.
for no other person
no other soul
would cast a stone
unto the heart of
a lover the way
you have.
darling,
your ignorance
betrays you.
your innocence
is the enemy
to you and i alike;
for,
how could i
love you
any longer
when my longing
is severed
by the bitter hand
of poor fortune?
and how could i
look into your cedar eyes
and say,
"darling, not anymore"
or,
"i cannot feel your
breath any longer"
or,
"leave me in my
despondency";
and how could i
touch your fair skin
and trace my fingers
over your lashes
your lips
your skin
and decide
that it is no longer.
darling,
give me your breath
just one last time.
give me your weight,
your undamaged kiss
and depart without a word.
for these lavender skies
tell not our fate;
so onward we press
and give our weighted hearts
to none.

Black Book Poetry Mar 2016

sirens of the weary heart (unfinished)

truly? truly,
you know not this weight,
this affliction cast upon
my weary soul.
and, truly,
these fading skies
hold a feeble cry
that i
know all too well;
but you
are a strange one
to this serenade
that beats upon
these somber souls
and sullen skies
alike.

Mar 2016

Busbar Dancer

Plague of Sadness

One need only look to the four winds
to find four frowns;
eight sad eyes
straining to see
through stained glass tears.
The man said "I die daily" but
he didn't have a constant stream of
status updates
to maintain.
I define myself daily.
Being special has
thus far
not protected me from
the unbearable weight
of today.
All of the analog cigarettes and
old fashioned daydreams
in the world
cannot save me now.
If I'm not seen
am I really here?
Heavy hearts and weary heads
reside respectively in the chests and on the necks
of everyone I encounter.
The gas station attendant
feels empty and
is bereft of a sense of irony.
The world ends
not with bang OR whimper,
but
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful...

Feb 2016

Emily Bronte

'Tis moonlight

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.

Feb 2016

Vicki Watson

Daisies

After the rain, I see the daisies,
In their clean, white dresses,
Fresh and perfect.
Washed and bright,
Their faces lifted to the skies,
And open to the sun.

Is it their youth that makes them so fearless,
Despite their diminutive size?
A naivety of spirit or
Lack of worldly knowledge?
Or do their fleeting, precarious lives
Lead them to so embrace the now?

No, their beauty springs from a truth far older,
For they are neither flashy nor flamboyant.
A daisy knows no subterfuge,
Has no jealousies, no conceit.
Its wisdom lies deeper,
And it bends with the wind.

To value the time that we have,
To see beauty in the smallest places,
And to love without fear,
Is a talent easily lost,
And the line between happy and sad is drawn
With a thin pencil and a light touch.

In miniature perfection,
A daisy lives fully,
Its face in the sunlight.
It lives, and that is enough.

Vicki Watson © 2014

#truth #life #hope #flowers #nature #beauty #daisies

Feb 2016

Paul Hansford

Rose (sonnet)

Ready to unfold from dawn's cold grey mist,
She'll know to follow nature's sweet path,
To reveal the beauty that only she hath,
Accepting the light that she cannot resist.

She opens with colours that call tender touch,
A spiral of petals that twist from the core,
Silky pages that open in her moment, not before.
Who knew that a rose could hold so much?

Come close and breathe the sweet perfume she holds,
The promise of nectar hidden inside,
The honey she gives, her treasure, her prize,
More fragrant than incense, more precious than gold.

Her petals now open, but the bud always there,
Holding her strong, yet so fragile and fair.

#sonnet #rose #symbolic