Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I lie with the cool moist breeze caressing my skin.
The mossy grass as soft as a feather mattress at my back.
I hear the birds up high in the canopy of leaves.
The sounds of the glade, from the squirrels scurrying to the foxes prowling assail my ears.
Peace pervades this forest, life carries on unhindered, from the ants to the worms, time and existence carry on full circle.
I'm part of that circle of forest life
ever since you took mine with your knife.
Leaving me lying staring up at the sky.
I see you returning every now and then,
do you see and hear and feel what I do?
Or do you just see the rotting me,
lying as still as a mannequin?
My murderer know this, I have been a feast to the beasts,
and I live on in them.
Soon, you'll not come back again, but I will always be with you.
And so will the insects, flies and life that bred from me in this glen.
© JLB
14/08/2014
15:21 BST
Eruption
An explosion
Another,
Then again
Again and AGAIN

The moon was up,
maybe the tide was down
a sea wall crumpled a little yesterday
cracks, careful now
glimpsing truth
simple and uncut
maybe the first

It brought some words
spoken here, back and forth
no yell, not hate, opinions
and again, I fell
falling, tumbling

Its not up to me
There is no help
Head over heels
Completely in love
a whirlwind,
hurricane,
tornado spin

I took her once,
She spoke return
Here and again,
Touching, loving
Until, at last spent

but then it was again,
her softness of skin
drove me to pleasures
fleshed, desperate desire
an intimate of love

More, again and more
Late in the night,
early into the morn
stopping for breaks
again, once again more
scratches and light bites
visit the morn

Never to have had
a woman so mine
if I could give her
the world, but
maybe my soul
mistakes
the portal to future
the trail to the past

lies
the dirt hidden beneath your skin
the crys in the back of your head

broken
the cracks in your skin you cover with a smile
the downfall of what they call your life

screaming
the emotionaly pain riding threw your body
the electricity that stops your heart  but all the while brings you to life

bleeding
the final stage till the end
the end of both future and past

this is the end to it all to the mistakes, the lies, the breaking, the screaming, the bleeding it all is over
My world has been rocked
Shattered to the core.

But I'm still here!

All the failures of my life
**** past me
Howling like the wind.

BUT I'm still here!

The razor looks friendly
Offering me its bitter comfort
To let my sorrow pour out.

BUT I'M still here!

Depression sings
his posioned song
Wanting me for himself

BUT I'M STILL here!

Come close to the edge
My feet stepping over.
Staring down into the Abyss

**BUT I'M STILL HERE!!!!!!!!!
A poem about Hope when everything around you is Screaming that there is none
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.
The hazel's unusual branch formations make it a delight to ponder, and was often used for inspiration in art, as well as poetry.

The bards, ovates and druids of the Celtic day would intently observe its crazy curly-Q branches. Doing this would lead them into other worlds of delightful fantasy. Much the same way our modern imaginations can be captured by a good movie, the creative Celts were artistically motivated by the seemingly random and wild contortions of the hazel.

A more commonly known fact is that the hazel is considered a container of ancient knowledge. Ingestion of the hazel nuts is proposed to induce visions, heightened awareness and lead to epiphanies. Indeed, the legend of Fionn Mac Cumhail tells of his gaining the wisdom of the universe by simply coming in contact with the essence of the hazel nut.
I will miss Autumn here.
The crisp days of October, startling the remnants of summer
into hiding.
The homely smell of hearth burned pine and smoked meat
drifting from chimneys built
by long-dead grandfathers.
The battle fields will be beautiful.
Bathed in maples,
harmless blood of leaves, though the earth
still bears streaks
of death.
The grasses, drying, dying, in the cooling air
will whisper to the sojourners passing through,
seeking sites of ancestors
whose voices they never knew.
I will not be here
to slip the fallen leaves
between phone-book pages or
paste and sew them
to handmade paper.
My mother will stare at the tangled thread,
the blank sheets,
left untouched on my desk,
and ask my father
where the time went.
Not everything I can make into a poem
like the sky just after rain
her embroidered smile its minutest hem
in her shade of cornea a grain of pain!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like wind eddies from wings of bird
her amorous veil that stokes my flame
in her lips’ quiver the unuttered word!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like the heron’s swoosh on the moon of marsh
her endless aroma without a name
in her eyes the million stars!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like when perches the bird on nest
her flushed cheeks in love game
in her kiss the sea salt’s taste!
Next page