#restful - Hello Poetry

I am awoken from a restful sleep aware of the fresh air the open window brings as she begins to sing it is the sound of the loon calling me to her side I stride towards the beckoning sound and her shore as the door swings open to a new dawn and a rising sun the early morning mist departing to reveal her beauty she is glass like this day, stillness the allure her stillness belies her truth that she can be rough enough as I stand beside her admiring the horizon she willingly displays my ears are attune to her lapping sounds, my heart calm launching my canoe I begin to paddle amidst her blueness each stroke like the combing of her hair with twirls and curls today she allows me to glide with ease yet she can also be a tease the gentle breeze now professed can transform into a mighty storm it is within her grace that she allows me this place of serenity for she could as easily sweep off my serendipity with a rough sea sounds of gulls take my eyes upwards into the clear blue sky watching them soar all the while jealous of their ability for flight a honking sound now has me looking to my right to catch sight of a gaggle of geese in mid-flight her back their launching pad and without warning there’s a splash as a fish leaps into the air in search of its morning dish of insect and bugs, as it dives back into the water, its sanctuary, its home I am reminded again of her kindness that she provides in sheltering bays her gentle waves taking me on a journey into the depths of this lake they call Placid Andreas Simic©

0

Jun 17, 2022

Jun 17, 2022 at 7:16 AM UTC

andreas-simic

Call Her Placid

I am awoken from a restful sleep aware of the fresh air the open window brings as she begins to sing it is the sound of the loon calling me to her side I stride towards the beckoning sound and her shore as the door swings open to a new dawn and a rising sun the early morning mist departing to reveal her beauty she is glass like this day, stillness the allure her stillness belies her truth that she can be rough enough as I stand beside her admiring the horizon she willingly displays my ears are attune to her lapping sounds, my heart calm launching my canoe I begin to paddle amidst her blueness each stroke like the combing of her hair with twirls and curls today she allows me to glide with ease yet she can also be a tease the gentle breeze now professed can transform into a mighty storm it is within her grace that she allows me this place of serenity for she could as easily sweep off my serendipity with a rough sea sounds of gulls take my eyes upwards into the clear blue sky watching them soar all the while jealous of their ability for flight a honking sound now has me looking to my right to catch sight of a gaggle of geese in mid-flight her back their launching pad and without warning there’s a splash as a fish leaps into the air in search of its morning dish of insect and bugs, as it dives back into the water, its sanctuary, its home I am reminded again of her kindness that she provides in sheltering bays her gentle waves taking me on a journey into the depths of this lake they call Placid Andreas Simic©

27

the waves lulled her into a restful state until she woke up deep in the ocean with tangled seaweed around her. "is this how it'll end?" "no," a voice whispered. her body valiantly fought to reach the surface. she took a much needed breath as the waves carried her to the shore.

0

Apr 12, 2020

Apr 12, 2020 at 7:30 PM UTC

soulmusings

submerged in water.

the waves lulled her into a restful state until she woke up deep in the ocean with tangled seaweed around her. "is this how it'll end?" "no," a voice whispered. her body valiantly fought to reach the surface. she took a much needed breath as the waves carried her to the shore.

12

Glance out a northern window and Winter suddenly beckons, just five days after Solstice, begging me to think again on my habitual dislike. The marble-white stratus above looks as soft as a woolen blanket covering all the strange things outside this world's sky. A vacant calm descends. And I am content to be quiet as the scene outside, Bucolic and static as A winter scene by Brueghel. I trace the bare branches that weave all around, seeming to huddle near closed and shuttered houses. They emit a silent desire to be known, uncovered, naked models to the season and sharp as a line drawing. All the stillness leads to reflection on the world we forget in summer, the hidden moles and groundhogs, insects that no longer irritate, allowing us to cease effort and sit at the table in the sun, eating stew and drinking mulled wine. But those of us who are curious walk in the snow, hearing sounds we never noticed: the crush of crystals, the crack of frozen branches. Or when the snow falls, there is a softening quiet, a restful pause in the air and we are entranced, standing to listen without effort, to the soundless sound of mind without thought, of Winter.

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Dec 28, 2019

Dec 28, 2019 at 10:11 AM UTC

sharon-talbot

A Northern Window

Glance out a northern window and Winter suddenly beckons, just five days after Solstice, begging me to think again on my habitual dislike. The marble-white stratus above looks as soft as a woolen blanket covering all the strange things outside this world's sky. A vacant calm descends. And I am content to be quiet as the scene outside, Bucolic and static as A winter scene by Brueghel. I trace the bare branches that weave all around, seeming to huddle near closed and shuttered houses. They emit a silent desire to be known, uncovered, naked models to the season and sharp as a line drawing. All the stillness leads to reflection on the world we forget in summer, the hidden moles and groundhogs, insects that no longer irritate, allowing us to cease effort and sit at the table in the sun, eating stew and drinking mulled wine. But those of us who are curious walk in the snow, hearing sounds we never noticed: the crush of crystals, the crack of frozen branches. Or when the snow falls, there is a softening quiet, a restful pause in the air and we are entranced, standing to listen without effort, to the soundless sound of mind without thought, of Winter.

38

To reach beyond the stars in a restful headspace, Only to pull a guise over it when we begin to think again. We shelter ourselves in our pin point perception of reality, masking the reality as a dream to shroud out all questions that arise out of it. We cling to this world, for it is all we have ever known. If we let go of what we know for a moment, we begin to see reality for what it is, not how we perceive it to be.

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Aug 27, 2019

Aug 27, 2019 at 4:27 PM UTC

MisfitOfSociety

Eyes Can Only See So Far

To reach beyond the stars in a restful headspace, Only to pull a guise over it when we begin to think again. We shelter ourselves in our pin point perception of reality, masking the reality as a dream to shroud out all questions that arise out of it. We cling to this world, for it is all we have ever known. If we let go of what we know for a moment, we begin to see reality for what it is, not how we perceive it to be.

4

I'm writing less but posting more, confusing what's sure and unsure. I'm missing windows and shutting doors; in vain, for all that's been before.

0

Jan 27, 2019

Jan 27, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC

zarab

bit of a u-turn

I'm writing less but posting more, confusing what's sure and unsure. I'm missing windows and shutting doors; in vain, for all that's been before.

7

I want to write something happy, But honestly, I'm not sure how, It's easier to write when I'm sad, or angry, Easier than when I'm just ok, like now, Right now I feel like stillness, Like a quiet afternoon without a breeze, Like a sweatshirt made of cotton, Like a memory of salty seas, I feel like something restful, Like some great slumbering beast, Like I'm looking to the horizon, Waiting for the sun to break in the east.

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC

hallie_richardson

O.K.

I want to write something happy, But honestly, I'm not sure how, It's easier to write when I'm sad, or angry, Easier than when I'm just ok, like now, Right now I feel like stillness, Like a quiet afternoon without a breeze, Like a sweatshirt made of cotton, Like a memory of salty seas, I feel like something restful, Like some great slumbering beast, Like I'm looking to the horizon, Waiting for the sun to break in the east.

12