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"birthplaces" poems
They came one day from where I know not. Unholy structures came to ground, certainly from another world. They wasted nothing of their time to cast affliction upon us. We ran away in terror in certain fear of our own lives. Many were seized and thrown into confinement, others inspected and probed, many of us were taken away and subjected to internal examination even dismemberment,  anatomical scrutiny. We had become the source of food for our invaders. Additional crafts came from the heavens joining their forbears. Havoc was extreme as their weapons did their worst creating carnage in every different direction. They lay waste to every surface and their vehicles cast out foul pollutants which poisoned the very air we breath. Our world was quickly becoming an inhabitable, desolate disconsolate place and extinction our future. Some of the braver of us tried to fight back but this alien nation had weapons and tools the like of nothing we had ever seen. The lucky ones escaped into the nether regions and watched from afar as piece by burning piece their birthplaces were destroyed. These Humans intend to colonise all that they see and our world will never be the same place again.
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Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
christopher-k-bayliss
Alien Nation
They came one day from where I know not. Unholy structures came to ground, certainly from another world. They wasted nothing of their time to cast affliction upon us. We ran away in terror in certain fear of our own lives. Many were seized and thrown into confinement, others inspected and probed, many of us were taken away and subjected to internal examination even dismemberment,  anatomical scrutiny. We had become the source of food for our invaders. Additional crafts came from the heavens joining their forbears. Havoc was extreme as their weapons did their worst creating carnage in every different direction. They lay waste to every surface and their vehicles cast out foul pollutants which poisoned the very air we breath. Our world was quickly becoming an inhabitable, desolate disconsolate place and extinction our future. Some of the braver of us tried to fight back but this alien nation had weapons and tools the like of nothing we had ever seen. The lucky ones escaped into the nether regions and watched from afar as piece by burning piece their birthplaces were destroyed. These Humans intend to colonise all that they see and our world will never be the same place again.
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In the empty hours when thoughts are dreams not realized, and hustles of curtains cover windows and sight. That is when the mourning begins. Mourn for time that might not be. For Grandchildren's giggles when they are tickled, for their hugs when they feel their little boy fears. Mourn for conversations not be held, for sharing that will not be shared. For emotions that will not be felt, or for experiences that will never occur. In the quiet time when memories are like pieces of an elaborate puzzle, and clocks tick in impatient hurry marching forwards, as they will do. Pictures perform, these compelling images that filter through the brain. They warm and they freeze, each according to their own special ways. A storm of floating spectrum's that sprinkle determination to stay slow. Halt the spreading beads that collect so forcefully from their birthplaces. In the dawning of the coming ending rises the many strands of what might be. This, no one knows; no one emerges with the bottles filled with answers.
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Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
ChrisGVaillancourt
In The Empty
In the empty hours when thoughts are dreams not realized, and hustles of curtains cover windows and sight. That is when the mourning begins. Mourn for time that might not be. For Grandchildren's giggles when they are tickled, for their hugs when they feel their little boy fears. Mourn for conversations not be held, for sharing that will not be shared. For emotions that will not be felt, or for experiences that will never occur. In the quiet time when memories are like pieces of an elaborate puzzle, and clocks tick in impatient hurry marching forwards, as they will do. Pictures perform, these compelling images that filter through the brain. They warm and they freeze, each according to their own special ways. A storm of floating spectrum's that sprinkle determination to stay slow. Halt the spreading beads that collect so forcefully from their birthplaces. In the dawning of the coming ending rises the many strands of what might be. This, no one knows; no one emerges with the bottles filled with answers.
Continue reading...
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