Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Dec 2016
David Bremner
Of all the gifts on Scotland's hills
The primrose is most fair
It stops the hiker in their tracks
And keeps them there to stare

At its kind form and beauty soft
I love it I confide
As deep among the heather blooms
It almost seems to hide

Like a young maid who may not know
That beauty's come her way
While others see her prettiness
And long with her to stay

So if you see that yellow bloom
When summer comes around
You'll know it is a precious thing
On Scotland's hills you've found.
 Dec 2016
SE Reimer
~

is this not a gift...
this the simple state of mind,
one which frames the past,
of all that's gone behind!
is this not the lens...
through which but few will see;
this the door to hope,
all but... invisibly!
a doorway scant will find,
for it hides within the shadows;
is shrouded in life’s mists,
and to e’en the mightiest foe,
this door is proven to resist.
yet those who find this state of mind,
these the few of simplicity’s kind,
prepared by life for another view,
these the ones who hold this truth;
for with a heart clothed,
with but a longing and a prayer,
an adornment of thankfulness,
this doorway to hope will appear;
as a lock that finds its key,
to the one who is clothed,
in an attitude’s raiment,
the door is already ajar;
and with only a nudge,
it will swing open wide,
beyond, to a pathway to love,
and the key to this future,
this doorway to hope...
this is gratitude’s garment!

~

*post script.

there is no secret
to what opens this door;
a heart of gratitude is key.
 Dec 2016
SE Reimer
~

“i’m loosing my before,”
she says as she peers
o’er her morning cup,
she struggles to recall,
to separate before and aft,
it's a place where blurring lines,
become blurred memories.
where BC and AD intersect;
that place within her mind,
where she drew a line
’cross sands of time,
’til the winds of living
blew her line away.
of life before this Cancer,
living before this Cost;
of silence 'fore the Call,
that told her all was lost.
his voice no longer lingers,
in her dreams he used to come;
now he's just a vapor,
but a ghost of what he was.
for now it's only after
Dreariness, Decay and Death;
now it’s sleepless nights,
while in picture books he rests.
his footsteps all but gone,
and only cards and photographs
to remind of seasons once upon,
a time of laughter and rejoicing,
replaced by cup of bitter tears.
the after-date of endings,
of after-hearts were pierced;
after-leaves have all decayed,
the after-disappearance,
of joy that he defined.
these the after-leavings,
the dregs from life distilled;
left to wonder, life to ponder,
the “why” a heart stood still.
of a BC and an AD,
a BC time, Before the Call;
when life was torn in two,
leaving shredded remnants;
and now the AD, After Daniel,
a time to pick up tattered pieces,
to find the peace in what remains;
this the place where legends born,
when all that’s left is but a name.

~

*post script.

there are few events in one’s lifetime that mark time, a before and after, like loss.  whether death, divorce, or deep disappointment... each a BC/AD moment that our human condition can so easily let define what remains; our after.  yet too, if we do not rush it, there can come a time when we are able to redefine our losses into legend... an AD that is an after-definition of sorts; where a crown of beauty replaces ashes and the oil of joy is exchanged for the bitter wine of mourning.  (Isaiah 61:3)    

to my sweet wife and to each of you, my friends who grieve, whatever your “AD”, know this... while the heart beats, there is yet hope!  hugs, hope and health to each, to all!!
your poet friend and lover of your posts,
(: Steve
 Dec 2016
Rainey Birthwright
.
When I fell, from you,
Into loves' violet eye,
Sea spray in my ears,
I was on the strands,
By the creeping seas.

Sky called, a tannoy,
Screed from seabirds
And the sands sunken,
Tapered me by footfall,
Such recurring dreams,

Air howling our names,
The horizon lit in flame,
We were twined in kelp
And arms rail embrace
On strands where I fell.
 Nov 2016
traces of being
Too roughly hewn and cleaved around edges frayed
shaped and reshaped by these own calloused hands

I realize the shape of things ,... who I am ... who I've become ―
The sound of my own raw voice knows not convention ;
it was nothing more than words of fragmented tomes exposed

Only the broken wind covering footprints on the road not taken
on a never ending journey into a lonely abyss

These greatest fears I've come to know ;
my greatest weakness bared and borne
                                        broken dreams bought and sold,
                                        for less than they were worth.

In the chill of this winter darkness grown cold
a newly recurring silence echoes poignantly,.. 
                                                  ­             redux
                                                          f­orevermore
                                                           self-loathed
                                                               déjà vu ―
       
                                The only dream's fruition ever feared:

                     to walk alone at that predestined parting moment

                         within a stones throw of six feet underground ,...

                                 dropping to these knees at a threshold

                                              well-nigh left behind,

                            knocking at the door that leads beyond  ―  

                        never needing to know how to say goodbye …



                                 thinking out loud ... 11. 29. 2016
"saying goodbyes are the hardest words to say"

In a moment of deeply diminished confidence writ
It feels appropriate to give a nod to a real poet “Everbody knows”

“I have tried in my way to be free” ―  L.   Cohen   Bird on a Wire
.
 Nov 2016
L B
Susan
with her china-white skin
relaxed
down to lace bra and *******—

“Have you ever heard this?” she asks

… sets the album, drops the needle
in the groove
We wait till bass fills in the room
sending time and silence empty-handed
down a hallway

Susan lights a joint
settles on the bed
ample legs begging apart
She ***** in deeply
impounding clouds  
Head thrown back
Thick glossy hair—
loses gravity
Eyes half-closed, shadow-heavy
clear and blue like piano
The walls are muted trumpet
stutter-hush of cymbal and the snare
Crackling over scratches

We are barely there

Susan exhales
a swirl of fog to a frail moon
Only her sultry voice still holds me tethered

“Have you ever heard anything— like this?”

Miles flows 
around me
Smoking
On the floor of Susan’s room
lying clothed and drunk
Soaked
with chords and wonder

I never hear him coming

Miles takes his time
Clearly, Susan was not the ****** here.  The year was 1969; Lowell State College dormitory in Massachusetts.  I was 19, a music major and on my way to becoming "radical revolutionary" and a poet. The album, I think, was Kinda Blue with Miles Davis and John Coltrane et al

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqNTltOGh5c
 Nov 2016
Dark Smile
This is for the forgotten ones
For the in-betweeners
For the never-good-enoughs
This is for my strong people
Who struggle daily to find their footing in a world that seems to take pleasure in seeing them trip
For the second choices
For the I'll-date-her-if-I-have-no-other-options
For those who always feel alone
For my fighters
I understand you and I am so proud of you
It is not easy to live the way you do and yet you are breathing
This is for my forgotten people who simply exist while no one cares
I'm with you and
I care
Next page