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gaia May 13
my own importance is swallowed like a pill,
by the resonance of his voice,
vocabulary ****** dry and replaced with a sheen of the need to
stay so unbearably quiet.

i always want to waltz in open spaces,
feel the air rushing past my arms as i spin,
but walking into a house so white and so cold,
i feel like i have ignored the welcome mat at the door.

it's his alleged presence,
or maybe it's just my own scepticism acquiring the patina of caution.
i walk with soft slow steps as if not to wake the dead in the garden,
cut short the swirl of my movements,
replace air vents in cartilage joints with rocks or plaster.
am i even supposed to feel like a person in my own right?

i wish someone would drop a pin for me to assess the quiet,
but there is a soft small current of people feeling at home,
or the quiet and the cautious mixing in like a cavity in a set of white teeth.

when i step back out into the sun,
my lungs grow fuller with oxygen, the leaves appear greener and the sky is more vibrant.
i do not feel his eyes on me as much; or the weight of being contained.
perhaps he just wanted me to go home.
based on the idea of feeling unholy in holy spaces. from 2017
Breathless from-
the beauty
the art
the history.

Those who’ve sacrificed-
to do what’s right,
what others could not
what others would not
who said what everyone else was afraid to say.  

Those who’ve gone before,
Made the way for me to be-
right here
right now
in this moment
in this foreign land.

So many feelings
So many thoughts
I push back the tears
(Why am I crying?)
I light a candle
I say a prayer.

Gratitude takes overs.
Click, click, click
Desperate to remember-
this moment
this feeling.
Still pondering the flood of emotions I experienced when I went in St. Giles cathedral yesterday. I’m on holiday in Scotland.
Star BG Apr 18
In the wounded shadow
we must shine light.
Consciously choose
expansion into a rebirth
to cleanse pain.

The wounded shadow
calls out burning like fire
with purpose
so Phoenix of self and world
can emerge.

It’s flames dance so we
purge remnants of old
that no longer serve.
That stipe truth from emerging

It’s time for
cathedral of heart to be built
for all to see.

See a new structure
of human form meant
to sing with choir of soul.

Let us all come together with love,
and weave a time line of peace.
Saw the burning Cathedral photo thus this poem was born.
When the cinders cool and the answer seekers
pick their way through the charred rubble
what will they find? A medieval carpenter's chisel, a pair of rosary beads, pigeon droppings, the down from an angel's wing, the tears of saints.
IrieSide Apr 16
I weep with you,

ancient splendor of a city's identity
succumbing to nature's
greatest trick

everything falls apart,
even our gods
of stone
Johnny walker Apr 16
I've travelled the
corridors of the
mind and discovered
who I really
someone who has
never quite been
sure who I really
Through the love that Helen gave me brought out
a person I never really knew I was that of a
kind carrying
Through the Inspiration of
my late wife Inspired me to spread my love
for lost and the lonely who's everyday burdens never seem to ever
So sad when I read today of a multi-millionaire who
Is giving
hundred million pounds
to rebuilt Notre Dame Cathedral I'm
but we have people families, children, starving whats more Important
human life to me
It's a no brainer the
needy would
first every time for having a good heart I see the suffering If I could I would
end It
I see the every day suffering In this life we live, people families
and most hurtful children
Peter Balkus Apr 15
I saw an angel,
his wings on fire,
falling down
from the window
of the cathedral.

I saw an angel
falling down
and I cried,
for with his fall
I have died.
Sad day for art lovers...
Juhlhaus Jan 13
Long ago my mother gave me birth.
From her molten womb in the cooling rain I took shape.
Wind and water gently fashioned me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

Men found me on the mountainside,
Stripped me of my mossy cloak
And hauled me away on a cart of wood,
To be used for the glory of God.
With metal tools and hammer blows they fashioned me
And gave me hard edges.
They stacked me high on top of other stones,
Fitted me snug and sealed me in.
Through narrow windows colored light shone on the floor below,
And in the darkness voices rose with scented smoke,
Singing of the glory of God.

Men warred with other men, took each other’s lives
And threw down what they had raised up, for the glory of God.
Scorched by angry flames, I fell
From that high place to lie broken in the ashes.
Wind and water gently washed me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the ruins
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

A shepherd found me in the grass, lifted me up
And carried me away in his arms.
He nestled me alongside other stones
To keep the wandering sheep from deadly cliffs.
Though riven clouds the bright sun warms us,
And in the mist life weaves us mossy coverings.
Day after day we listen to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.
I would not have thought a stone could possess a soul, until I visited Scotland. This poem was inspired in part by a visit to the ruins of the Cathedral of Saint Andrew. I composed the poem a few months later, after a friend suggested I write an essay describing my spiritual journey through disillusionment and doubt. As I pondered this, it seemed that no essay could ever convey my bound-up thoughts and emotions, but a poem might begin to do so.
Gary Brocks Sep 2018
There was the tremor of leaves,
a rustle of bayonet grass
parried the multihued calm
of dawn's smeared light.
"This is what we trained for," the captain said.
We hunkered behind stacked bags of sand.

Filigreed shafts of light pierce
the bullet perforated leaf canopy,
bellowed yells punctuate the swirl
and buffet of turbulent air:
“Contact”,  “2 O’Clock”, “Incoming”, “
"Moving”, “Reloading”, “Ammo”.

Fingers twitch, the grit of soil
twisted through their grip;
moon slashed carcasses glint, spent shells,
Earth exhales a vermillion mist,
rising, echoless, in this
a cathedral of leaves.
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