Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the trouble of her laboring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
 Feb 2019 Juhlhaus
eleanor prince
no ripple
on glistening pond
bucolic greenery
greeted sweet mornings
like apple muffins
dusted with
spice

pathways through
rainforest's half-light
hushed cathedral
birdsong rang true
retrieved to senses
a lilting lullaby's melodic
notes

then machinery
of life's happenchance
seared through undergrowth
chainsaw's presence
halted paradise
lacerations on earth's
lungs

reverberations hit
tremors appear
reach beyond
borders coddled close
as things find a new
place to roost and
grow
sometimes things change perhaps somewhat unexpectedly -  a relationship experiences a different phase, needs are not being met the way they once were, someone close to us moves far away, a sweet friendship can suffer an unanticipated wound - whatever the loss, there can be regret and it can feel like much of value has been lost, yet at times it can lead to certain insights and more...
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
 Feb 2019 Juhlhaus
eleanor prince
I see the boy's eyes
puckered
destroyed
he can't grasp
how is this
so?

on balance
tales and
lies do
for the spark of
a yarn's
pull?

or are the child's
ties torn
the parent's
solidity broken
his rock
in a world

shaken?
an uncomfortable reality...
 Feb 2019 Juhlhaus
eleanor prince
Where are you
my one perfect muse
the shape of contours
conjured in dreams
held since bud was formed

Where do you rest
waiting
like me for that
eclipse
of moments

Where?!

Are you even
embraced in capsule
light
weightless
located in One

Or are you diverse
scattered like seed on
winds unknown
beyond my reach
as I wonder

Where?!

Is it pointless to conceive
of your fullness
knowing deep down
you exist only in
poetry of disenchanted idealists

Newly formed realists
whose life work
lies smashed
pointless journey
reaching reality

Or will I glimpse you
in passing crowd
ephemeral but
sharply cut out
from all the rest?
(If not 'muse' then boss, friend, partner... )
 Feb 2019 Juhlhaus
eleanor prince
he begets
fullness
of a tremor

steals a
touch
then it's lost

dew on blooms
gleam
dissolve

focused
vibration
passes

lips pause
barest
trace

kiss of
warm breeze
on still day

more sought
courted
met

frenzied tension
slowly rising
heralds

smiling dance
cells in naïve
cacophony
 Feb 2019 Juhlhaus
eleanor prince
when scenes
pixelate
halt in a cell's
frozen scream
slow-motion rage
cloaks grief

do earth's plates
shift at all
respond to pain
torn out of shape
in savage roar

no

we matter to ourselves
on some days
while he or she
reads the code
to check the tides

oscillate in
crawl space
hidden
in island habitat's
darkened cave

we try to breathe
solitary venture
as days run out
leaving dust
and bones

in silence

as a new
dawn
rises
when depression's dark dirge speaks... may we find a way to wait for a new dawn
 Feb 2019 Juhlhaus
eleanor prince
mementos
richly held
hidden in
fractured chest

big people
shifting boxes
heavy
light

silenced
a child's fissure
clasping favourite shell
close

swift salvage
in tight world
rescue from
gaping hole




#family #disruption #moving #treasures #mementos #lost #ignored
For a very young child, moving house can be incredibly bewildering, disruptive, even traumatizing, especially when moving countries tends to mean belongings need to be severely curtailed.  Few remember their own childhood attachments, closely held treasures, even if perceived by harried adults as inconsequential as a bag of broken seashells.  Would a little more listening and empathic explanation with kindness ease things well at such transition times
 Jan 2019 Juhlhaus
Carl Sandburg
FROM the time of the early radishes
To the time of the standing corn
Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes.
  
There are laws in the village against weeds.
The law says a **** is wrong and shall be killed.
The weeds say life is a white and lovely thing
And the weeds come on and on in irrepressible regiments.
Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes; and the village law uttering a ban on weeds is unchangeable law.
 Jan 2019 Juhlhaus
Carl Sandburg
Musings of a Police Reporter in the Identification Bureau

You have loved forty women, but you have only one thumb.
You have led a hundred secret lives, but you mark only
     one thumb.
You go round the world and fight in a thousand wars and
     win all the world's honors, but when you come back
     home the print of the one thumb your mother gave
     you is the same print of thumb you had in the old
     home when your mother kissed you and said good-by.
Out of the whirling womb of time come millions of men
and their feet crowd the earth and they cut one anothers'
     throats for room to stand and among them all
     are not two thumbs alike.
Somewhere is a Great God of Thumbs who can tell the
     inside story of this.
Next page