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Stephen Purcell Mar 2020
Do you ever wonder, when the leaves dance in the wind, if stones get jealous?
Or, when the sun dives, bleeding through the evening sky, a silver tear slides down the moon's pockmarked face?

Do you ever wonder, if the glistening mist through weeping willow's boughs calms the whispering winter winds? Or quiets it? Is the snow their silent tribute, falling from the stark still clouds?

The wind you see, is madness. The spring sings after stillness, after soft snowdrift coats the landscape in white. The earth grows cold and thaws and crawls slowly out of slumber.

Spring sings and birdsong rings though the air. The flowers peek up from their beds and summer starts to stir.

The wind is madness because, as the brightest summers go on and on and the bees banquet seems never ending; the nectar ain't eternal.

It's the earth's lament, not winter itself, but the unending cycle. That's how it goes and that's how it blows.
I wonder if the earth cries hurricanes?
First half decent, last half crap. First poem in ages
Stephen Purcell Feb 2019
Toothfish. Wide and frozen.
Wet gloves, odd sawdust and plastic.  
Time and fish both slip.
A haiku
Stephen Purcell Oct 2018
To those who wrong his chosen, he is retribution incarnate.
From his hands come gifts to those who help him on his path and judgement to those who hinder.
He is the light shining in the midst of shadows.
Lord and friend and shield and home.
A mirror of potential, a catalyst of those who strive to honour his esteem
A being of action and justice and the outreaching of hands.
His gifts seed life and his name brings hope.
Confidant to the world-weary and a gentle helping hand.
He is the Soul of the Protector.
Stephen Purcell Aug 2018
To languish.
To lie in wait, to wait in fear, to fear in darkness.
A prisoner languishes, as does a lobster in the ***.
Dungeon, tower or suburban shed; it's the silence, the cursed quiet.
Weakness and sorrow and cold and waiting, always waiting.
Run-on musings of a word. Hopefully a new beginning. Mostly practice.
Stephen Purcell Mar 2018
Baptised by the rain, by your companion's tears and by the pouring dripping fear.
Step down, my love, from the dark clouds into the muck; into the mire of my soul.
White you once were and white you will become. Be still, my love and see me tear.
See me rip and roar with pain, begging, kneeling before the face of it. The face of the Abyss.
See me falling. See me bleeding into the river, the mighty torrent.
Above us is a holy light. Look up, my love. Look up and fly.
Stephen Purcell Jan 2018
Have you ever fallen into the world behind your eyes?
Tis a world beyond description, of concept and timeless colour, pure sensation.
Have you ever loved the world behind the sky?
Loved the ideas, not the people, not the grass, but the sound of green on green.
Have you ever dined in a maze of countless lies?
Seen the beauty in the words, danced in meadows made of her...
Have you ever sat and watched the darkness; the twilight, mirrored starlight?
I have and it burned quietly; quietly and softly.
Poets, like
madmen and prophets,
are banned from
the Kingdom of Reason,
as they are
the progeny of the sun
(the sun who illumines as he blinds)
and the siblings
of the rays
who never tire
of beating
the world into
magnificent new shapes
that fascinate us
all – including
Unwavering Moon whose
lonesome secret is to be
madly in love
with the rainbow.

© LazharBouazzi, May 26, 216
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