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grey skies roll
clouded tropical
undercurrents
of future falls
shrouding skies
and shifting seas
from sad-eyed lowlands
to mountain highs
and we as trees
shiver branches
ever extending
shootings in the breeze
at arm’s reach
we never touch
planted
too far apart
and as such
falling droplets
slip through fingers
and shatter the ground
an endless coming down
our roots soaked through
spent
and craving more
all around
aroused from slumber
the petrichor grows
slowly floating up
and filling the air
composed at sunrise as the first storm rolled overhead
He travels great distance against all odds,
reaches the border, but turns back helpless
she just stands there, impatiently smiling
with extended hands, but making no move
to cross the emotional wall, they built themselves.
prisoners within the self built cells of emotion
Stone by stone,
stacked with Roman concrete,
the wall must be built.
If I build it,
some part of me will be lost.
If I do not,
some part of me will be crushed.
My own vanity and pride
cannot withstand
the passing whims of others.
If only I could dig a moat
around my heart.
I feel dramatic,
but I will not remain
encumbered
with this nonsense.
I have always longed
to be a warrior,
to fight, to defend that
which I love.
But until this day,
I failed to love my heart.
So I must be a shieldmaiden for it.
To protect myself, yet know
when to raise the gates.
Perhaps I am too immature,
I ask for that which
only comes with time.
A man-made cave of brutal grey
Damp and dark on sunlit day
Void of what it used to be
Yet a thousand souls I seem to see
Oppressed I felt I must escape
So through narrow door my way I make
A few steps more on grassy knoll
To sit, and breathe, and take control
I stare across the open fields
Wide and flat, and Poplar healed
I want to write
Yet words won’t come
For in this place all words are done
Upon this knoll, one long past day
Were penned the words of John McCrae
So instead I ponder field’s banks
Fresh turned earth in neat trim ranks
And watch the flowers bob their heads
With diaphanous petals
Of deep blood red.

RD © 2014
Today, my wife and youngest daughter are on a school trip visiting Ypres.  About five years ago I made the same trip with our eldest daughter. Amongst many places we visited was the Essex Farm Dressing Station and I admit that quite soon I found it’s atmosphere oppressive and so sat outside about 20 feet away on the grass bank of field, where Poppies were growing in newly ploughed earth. I tried to write something then, to imagine, but no words came. So I took a photograph of the closest poppy instead and it was only when I was walking back to the coach that I saw the inscription that explained how John McCrae, Canadian Army surgeon, had just failed to save his friend in the dressing station and came outside to sit awhile, where he wrote “In Flanders Fields”  (3rd May 1915). And I knew all the words had already been used for this place.
~

Unseen

As if I am not even here…
Unseen by everyone, including myself
Not even a shadow exists
of any form that I recognize as mine

Even though you could see me, you don't
Staring through the dotted lines
of where my heart used to sit
in silhouettes long faded…forgotten

My hand before my face is not there
A heavy fog sifts the loneliness
No foot prints in the mud
remain of where I may have walked…untouched

Still I see you…you smile,
not at me, but somewhere beyond
Running through me, an invisible past
reaching for another…who smiles too

As if I am not even here…
Sometimes my memories sneak out of my eyes
and roll down my cheeks  
These prisoners always find a way to escape,
When tension reaches its peak
Off into the night
Where everything I invision becomes bleak
Sometimes my mind doesn't follow my footsteps
and leaves my heart hollow
These prisoners derive themselves out of feelings that were ever so potent
But now..
I realize what chances are overlooked when words remain unspoken .


-Tamera Brown
For those who lie restless at night thinking of the missed oppurtunities
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