“How are you feeling these days?” they asked. “Your heart is broken, isn’t it?”

Drowning. I feel like I’m drowning. I’m trying to catch a breath. I’m trying to live. But no matter how much I want to stay afloat, my body just keeps on sinking. No matter how much I want to live, my body just can’t seem to cooperate. I’m just waiting to be saved. Waiting for someone to rescue me from these waters. Waiting for something to hold on to.

My heart
crackles
with an indecipherable
something
which gives it
shape,
yet seems to simultaneously,
parasitically
siphon
all
joy
and
will
from within it.

Maybe it's just
my heart
masquerading,
pretending substance
to cover up the overwhelming
nothing.

After all, nature abhors a vacuum.

Whitewashed fences mark
the division of shallow lines
of demarcation marring a bitter plain

Truth that too can be seen
as a balance with bruised knees
whispering prayers of bent supplication

Looking for a smile seen in clouds
of judgment and blurred hazes

The drum beats of life and echoes still,
in cracked addicted alleys of fairness
gone awry with a broken wheel
spinning on a loom of time

Native pains and naive indiscretions inexcusable, earth telling a compelling
tale if you can dig your hand in the dirt

Seeking through the mire for truth
and tales long since buried in the sands
of time, which whisk away history,
books burned with lies full of distaste

Imprinted on impressionable minds
like miscreant clones sprung
from fanatical factories

Indoctrinated with false education
and breeding still more hate, echoing,
listening to the heartstrings playing
a concerto of truth, an aria of sad realism

A beating of a drum
that has long since been silenced
by an oppressive, regressive hand

These times give me fear when courage
is what is needed most, post haste

Hate seems to be in such a fury
hurrying at a madman's pace.

::::::::::::::::::::::::


Nary a frog croaks
terra cotta garden lamp
selfishly, glows dim.

a striped gastropod
stretched longer, out of its shell
braver....in the dark

neighbors' dogs howl deep,
gecko sings its night songs loud
bats crash...swoop their prey.....

unseen black cats cross
there's no wind, yet...leaves rustle
shadows multiply

the dark feeds the mind
superstition lives...it breathes
moon hides...........i shall, too...


Sally

copyright September 22, 2017
rrab

When hunting, the tribe is quiet, for obvious reasons, if the hunt is to be successful
but the tribe would still be communicating
and unity of means and purpose would ensure the outcome favourable to the aims of the hunters
so silence of the lips can afford a powerful way to interact with your environment, and your fellow Man, for the welfare and prospering
of the Human tribe, and what would a Hermit be hunting if not a peaceful mind heart and soul for the benefit of Mankind communicated not primarily with the spoken, or written word, but the spiritual, unseen benefit of being united, as far as is possible, with love.

As we walk,
You tell me
that the silt from the river
has built up over the years
creating a new bank
with flowers
and plants
making the best of the rich soil.
As you speak,
I note the sound of your voice
and wish
I could sink in
and grow
like the foxgloves
in the mud.

tall pines
birch trees
lining the trail

high cliffs
running streams

waterfalls
spilling over rock

smashing into
pools below

ears attuned
to forest creatures

dusk
fast approaching

a full grown doe
meanders

a young buck
follows

I wonder
who it is

that feels
more fear

in that moment
we are one

he wrote about
her and
made her
immortal.


-- Eleanor