The sound of the leaves written primarily by trees. As such was the beauty heard plainly with ease. Up mountains, round rivers. A song for the birds. For the people that fly there. Across valleys was heard. Now what be the mention of this, you may wonder, Alone to unravel the blur from down under. A song can be sung from the language of trees. I heard in the sky and then carried to thee. https://www.susykamber.com/ Ekphrastic Poetry Explores Art
I stand here; outside my balcony amidst darkness in the company of loneliness
My soul impertaburbly trapped between forlornness and peacefulness
Yin and Yang perhaps,
Forlorn because the soul, wounded and damaged perniciously by loneliness..
And peace; because the herb... well the herb heals to some extent
My vessel the arena
On a forbidden course Yang battles Yin the odds are in his favor THC to Yin is like aconite to wolves;
And so he weakens with every hit
The melee ends like it was destined to tranquil and pure bliss prevail
At that moment; the wind starts to sing her song
Calling, whistling to his lover the king of the night she whistles a beautiful song that sounds of a gentle breeze zephyr like pushing aside clouds that guard his majesty; grandiosely his image is revealed in the nightlife
Observe they all gather under the nightsky; selenophiles far away from each other all in different worlds but it's this energy that coheres them here together
The wind starts to sing the song of halcyon, ogling at the moon in veneration and exhilaration selenophiles danced away into the night.
Dried pods rattled in the breeze, such a hollow sound, echoing deep emotions and driving a sigh from my lips as I stretch in the dim glow of early morning. I pull on my old white shirt, a dingy color much like the lightening sky. Stained and torn jeans follow, the jagged edge of a rip rubbing against my callused fingers reminding me of work ahead. I frown at the sight of my boots, crusted with mud, a chore that lies ahead and a longing for a day without shoes. I feel the flakes of dirt when they stick to my feet as I take to the kitchen grabbing coffee and biscuits. Breakfast in the field, lungs soaking in the cool air, watching the moon as it tried to hold on. A losing fight much like my own. The moon peeked between skeletons of plants past. The song of death sang once again as the breeze cut it’s path. I swallowed coffee letting the bitter taste and hot water replace bitter and burning memories. The sun was soon to rise though and I had life to live. Like a switch, my hat slipping on my head tucked away any distraction, and I was whole again. I gave a last glance to the moon, tipped my hat to the light that fought the dark.
previously published in the HoCo Poetry Project. link here: https://hocopoetry.wordpress.com/2013/12/27/image-8/