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Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Evening darkens upon the moors,
Forgiveness—a hairless thing
skirting the headlamps, fugitive.

Why have we come,
traversing the long miles
and extremities of solitude,
worriedly crisscrossing the wrong maps
with directions
obtained from passing strangers?

Why do we sit,
frantically retracing
love’s long-forgotten signal points
with cramping, ink-stained fingers?

Why the preemptive frowns,
the litigious silences,
when only yesterday we watched
as, out of an autumn sky this vast,
over an orchard or an onion field,
wild Vs of distressed geese
sped across the moon’s face,
the sound of their panicked wings
like our alarmed hearts
pounding in unison?

My family did get lost in an English moor on a dark moonless night. It happened when I was a boy. My mother was driving and seemed to have no idea where we were, or which direction to head. I wondered if we would ever find civilization again. It was a very spooky experience that I drew on for my poem. Keywords/Tags: England, Devon, moor, car, headlamps, headlights, directions, maps, points, routes, strangers, signals, orchard, field, geese, hearts, relationships, parting, separation, divorce, loneliness, alienation, free verse
Chase Parrish Mar 2019
March do we, along the ash and cyprus
While contemplating natures of the moor.
So very full of life, and also death.

Briefly glancing round, the bog seems lifeless,
To walk so alert, danger life obscures
March do we, along the ash and cyprus

But after observation, I confess
Quite lively lies our grand mud-soaked detour.
So very full of life, and also death.

Every creature here exudes unkindness,
And any of them might our death ensure.
March do we, along the ash and cyprus

Yet still, I find their number in excess
Than places having more growth, and verdure.
So very full of life, and also death.

So now my new perspective does egress
Much different than it ever did before.
March do we, along the ash and cyprus
So very full of life, and also death.
This was using a prompt for the weekly challenge in a discord I'm a member of, but I didn't submit it because I finished it late. We were supposed to quite a poem about duality. This is also the third poem in my ****** Journal series. Check out my page for the other poems in the collection, and free feel to check out the discord.  As always comments and critiques are appreciated.
Darkness deepens.

The day is being woven

Between the black and white threads.

From time immemorial,

The restless wind emerges and blows

Out of the ancestral graves.

By the tongues of the leaves

Death murmurs:        

‘Life drops and splits like a tear,

Down the moorland where the devil vultures

Flutter with blade-like wings.

Everyone is betrayed in their sleep

By the dream that makes us smile

Yet leads into the blackhole of death.

The world overflows with funeral songs,

Each soul sings a dirge in the tomb.

After the violent fight with the shadows,

We yield with a scream

Echoing from clouds and hills.

It is our dreams that burn on every pyre,

Hope itself is buried in this battlefield,

The graveyard of the lost.
Pagan Paul May 2018
Snow drifts down
     laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
          creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
     bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
     and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
     A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
     as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
          The snow falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
               all is still,
               nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
                       of being kissed by the Sun.

© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
Bread of
hearth that
wreathe my
wire bare
the byway
that always
wits our
touchstone here
and paint
her screen
that market
dream with
nature while
fantasia is
always rapture
again while
wholly political
MsRobota Sep 2017
The memories of you
Scream louder than their weapons
Pointed at me
Saying I should erase you from this life
They bring back the words you spoke
Just before you left me sitting alone in a theater
Watching a movie

I can follow the plot, but cannot pause
I watch the ****** stuck on repeat
And it won’t slow down

I feel the promise we shared
In the tides along the beach
It bring back the words I spoke

I promise I will never forget to remember you
Driving on the bridge watching the sun
Warm the Ireland moor
We survived the ghosts that night

The windows shattered when you woke up beside me
The gates opened and we’re moving into our new home
I know you’ll come home
Because I feel your presence as gentle as a hummingbird
Your bare feet walking through the door everyday
You walk straight through me
My eyes flash open

I never packed up your things
Never closed the gate
Never fixed the shattered windows
Because you promised you’d do it when you came home

But nothing makes sense
Am I a hostage of hopeless thinking?
But I feel your fire consume my heart
Was I too occupied by the warmth of your arms
When you pulled me in, sat me down, I lost my breath
You gave it back
Soft like the English rain tapping on my windshield
As I drive towards the station where we never should’ve said goodbye
I feel the train pass by
And this world is monochrome
I feel the train pass by
And this world is monochrome
I feel the train pass by
And this world is monochrome
Georgiana S Mar 2017
My steps have led me
To a far unknown place
Where the Beast is hiding,
Where the Dark is shining
Across the other side
Of the moor.

Magpies have sung me
About a far unknown place
Where my Heart is hiding
Into a deep dark well
On the other side
Of the moor.

My memories have left me
Into a black unknown place
Where a patient Solitude awaits,
Unnatural Silence circulates
A deep dark well
On the blackest side
Of the moor.

*The Beast is laughing...
Rockie Jan 2015
Cuts and wounds and scratches
Set deep in your skin
They create little tracks
Like Daddy's motorbike on
That deathly moor

Cuts and wounds and scratches
Creating red blood
To swell to the surface
Like Daddy's body on
That deathly moor

Cuts and wounds and scratches
They are
Ugly crevices
On the map of your body

Cuts and wounds and scratches
Deep enough as crevices
To fall and sink into
Just like Daddy did on
That deathly moor
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