Holding long to longing,
longing, holed to holding,

I ode my tale for bold forboding.

Swiftly shores sung,
ripping, reaping, revealing

I stopped just short of saint-like stealing.

Madly minutes mumbled,
syllables stuck, syrup

My thoughts no longer mine to stir up.

Go away little wisp.
I know what you are up to.
I pay the slightest notice,
you morph into an innocent, seductive puff
strutting to and fro
offering companionship,
comfort,
yes, even love.
I admire you; you gust, fat and fluffy.
I compliment; you explode into a cumulous mass hovering ominously above.
I worry; ashen gray lithely overtakes beguiling white.
Rumbling belly fills with rage and swells with forboding.
There is no longer an escape.
My thoughts
are pulled into shadow
and slapped onto earth
in torrents of unrestrained rage.
Completely engulfed, I choke, and
swirl in great muddy vortexes down lost drains.
Who am I?
Who are my thoughts?
I only have you to grasp onto,
and that is no solace.

A forgiving grey
Black and white together sway
until the next rain
A forgiving grey
Moody clouds come out and play
a forboding and colorless sky
Black and white together sway
A forgiving grey

© Priya Patel 6/1/2015

Old churches smell of Camphor

New churches get febreezed

New churches have soft benches

Old churches wreck your knees

Old churches have stained windows

New churches have foam walls

Old churches fill you up with dread

New churches look like malls

New churches have young pastors

Old churches, not so much

New churches have no feeling

Old churches hurt to touch

Old churches scream religion

New churches whisper "Hi"

New churches aren't forboding

Old churches make you cry

New churches full of speakers

Old churches you just yell

New churches all have daycare

Old churches threaten hell

Old churches full of people

New churches full of young

New churches and new hymnals

Old churches,,bells are rung

Old churches make you wonder

New churches keep you cool

New churches...air conditioned

Old churches are a jewel

Old churches...God is power

New churches...God's a friend

New churches....rules are broken

Old churches do not bend

Old churches are my background

New churches I don't know

Old churches full of stories

New churches full of show

Old churches there's confession

New churches there is not

New churches you say sorry

Old churches...it gets hot

New churches have no devil

Old churches he is there

New churches full of comfort

Old churches just to scare

No matter what religion

Be it new or be it old

Faith is one commitment

Forever,you should hold

Old churces are my favorite

New churches quench a thirst

But if I had a choice of one

I'd pick the old church first.








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..

Morning comes with fear tow...
with what light bears to all unknown.

Had last night forboding dreams...
Hear the water of trickling streams.

  This calls away the night concerns...
to what there is this day to learn.

What riddles does this day in store...
soon thoughts of life return once more.

To hear the distant spring Birds song..
and dawns that bird- been gone quite long..
with the croaking frogs down by pond...

Now back at home where they belong...
these Sounds the Farm's been waiting on.

So smiling in her stoic way-
Now looking forward to this day..
it's time to shelve her timid thoughts- instead sets mind to things she ought

Put on boots this early morn'- as Mother's calf just newly born.
A baby sprung-  internal nest..
now lays down beside his Mother's chest.

Life on Farm starts out Anew with thoughts of hope and joy imbued.   

            All Rights Reserved * 2016 Cherie Nolan

Like the raindrops that once rendered a kiss
Upon my dripping, wonting lips
You watched as the words formed and took shape
And fluttered gently without escape
And by your eyes did I despise
Each time that I had not to them lied
For you saw heartache in my chest,
And softly put my head to breast
To lay and weep and hope to live
The sound of my dying was corrosive.
-
Each breath and tear beneath enigma
Was cause enough for wretched stigma
Although you hadn't broken it
My heart was worth its weight in ****,
And as I passed, you looked forlorn,
Forboding silence on an awaiting shore,
Pretending not to love is worse
Than losing all you had endorsed,
If fate is naught but falsehood's truth,
I'd give the world to not be rid of you.

The word was out around the street
Tonight, behind Giannis bar
There would be really something special
From the bluesman and his guitar

For locals not for punters
Just for those upon the street
You'd better bring a lawn chair
If you wanted a good seat

The word spread fast and no one
Would miss this once they heard
New works from the bluesman
You had to take in every word

The bluesman was a legend
In this flawed, dark part of town
He only played back in the alley
That was where his show went down

At precisely eleven seventeen
The bluesman took his place
Upon his beat up orange crate
In his same familiar space

It was just like a cathedral
Underneath the golden moon
Quiet and forboding
As he started his first tune

The alley was the bluesmans church
As he sang to the street people
But this church had no walls or pews
No bells, it had no steeple

The bluesman sang of love and loss
Of dragons, ships and gin
He sang of Shubert, Bach and Liszt
He sang of constant sin

He looked but he saw no one
He was zoning, all alone
He sang songs of faith and hunger
Time to give the dog a bone

He played and drank his med-cin
For sometimes he got dry
The bluesman had the crowd entrapped
Beneath the shining moonlit sky

He talked of how his smoking
Through the years gave him his sound
It only took me fifty years
I'm surprised I'm still around

He sang of love and window panes
Of jealousy and trust
Of walruses and potholes
Of people turned to dust

As people sat in wonder
Of this prophet in disguise
You could see a certain twinkle
Deep in the bluesmans eyes

Gianni, stood off to the side
Timekeeper of the show
He signalled to the bluesman
One more and we must go

He had to close the restaurant
Turn the lights off in the back
So the bluesman took another sip
And grabbed a song from his minds pack

He finished up with something
Singing songs for all who came
He made them feel it was their heartsong
Although he never said a name

He sang of waitresses and barkeeps
Pawn brokers and of guests
of family and train tracks
of watchers and of quests

He finished up and packed away
His crate and his guitar
And he collected appreciation
In a two quart mason jar

The crowd left thirty dollars
almost ninety cents a seat
A fortune to the bluesman
And the folks here on the street

and how we have traveled this night
how we have lived a thousand lifetimes in these  hours
while they wispered in desperate quiet
we sang and danced and let our hair free
your coming home to me lover
my arms and my heart ache for you

never ever leave again
with you i sail over this world with such freedom
without you my love
i am mortal with feet of clay

pennys on the pound broker the deal
we shall pay the ferryman to take us
back across the river styx
and away from the dark forboding hills

with you my love
i can defeat the world.

Lonely isle in a deep blue sea
Like the lonely child
Deep inside of me

Searing stars in the midnight sky
Like the searing scars, white,
Where the blood has dried

Lingering presense in the darkened night
Like the linging essence
Of the forboding fright

Sinister whispers burn in the cold crisp air
Like the sinister embers
In my empty stare

Haunting screams in the abysmal deep
Like the haunting dreams
That terrorize my sleep