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 Jul 2015 glenn martin
niamh
The single flower
Placed upon the rocky path
Tells of pain and loss.

The silent ocean
Cannot be charged with ******
For the life it took.

Top of the food chain,
Mortal men gasp their last breath
As she engulfs them.

Fooled by her silence
The respect for her power
Was left on the shore.
write a poem everyday
make it a daily habit
note whatever you've to say
the bitter or the sweet.

stare at the screen before you
or the page if it's so
there's always something new
awaiting your ink's flow.

some you've to dig not much
a few need delving deep
some may feel like feather touch
a few would make you weep.

sometimes the hand would just not move
at other would run like horse
sometimes the words would sing and groove
cry out like waves' roars.

while you write you may bleed
or kiss the blue like bird
jotting down is all you need
the inner voice that's heard.
the poet buds for a lifetime
stars silently
    enveloped
     turbulent seas,
gingerly dappling
   each current,
whence the tides
   were stilled
'til they ebbed
    'tween streams
        of serene
            spring waters,
      rushing its
          banks in
             cascades of
                tranquil
                     awed hushes
                         overflowing
                                midst
                                   surrender's
                                                   quietude
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