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Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
the Silence became
like an old lesson learned

a broken heart intones
a voiceless song
resonating a refrain of Silent echoes
in a voice that never heard a word
yet spoke so clearly ... lingering
in realms of subtle ambiance

soundless remnants
stacked neatly as
building blocks;  
another brick in a wall,
already too tall to see beyond—
growing like a bunker
without a sense of safe harbor

as the Silence became
time and space,
a stillness beset the melancholy air
as if a world without song
foreboding an unpredictable storm
beget vestiges of broken windfall,
reticent leftovers hushed after a gale

s i l e n t l y

an acorn fallen  — became a mighty Oak

a wind-broke twig — became a weeping willow

a neglected child — became mother nature's son

the Silence became
        a blind prophet —
in its voice held forth
smatterings of truth
and undertones of an unrequited
fool’s hope

the Silence became
a strong, abrupt rush of wind
uttering voiceless exhalations of breath;
a hovering dawn mist
    befallen after a summer storm—
surrounding all in all
bedewed in a feigned peace


... the unabated sounds of silence
become


Jesse Stillwater ... July 20th, 2018
Thank you or reading —
Terry O'Leary Dec 2016
My chamber teems with tensions, taut, that logic can’t withstand,
fragmenting mental masonry with memories unplanned,
as bitter tears from hazel eyes reduce the stone to sand.

Dim shadows cast by candles flit across the haunted room,
beleaguer apparitions, pale, that stalk me through the gloom,
usurping purloined purple forms forgotten ghosts assume.

The tick-tock clock of time rewinds within the mirrored hall
and pendula suspended, pause, while creatures creep and crawl
on images of effigies, through memories that maul.

The madness of the midnight mass! Perchance it interferes
with spiders spinning spiral threads which bridge the chandeliers
when weaving minds' discarded coils to silken souvenirs.

Reflections graced the vacant gaze of idols as they fled!
Their futile, feigned, far-flung farewells now hammer in my head,
marooned like frozen silhouettes in footprints of the dead.

My lovers smile through marbled masks before they turn their backs
(like furnace flames deserting ash or phantoms fleeing cracks)
with faded, painted, wrinkled faces nightmares carve in wax.

Sometimes a gust disturbs the dust and secrets reappear,
which dance in silver slippers through the dusk of yesteryear -
it's not the screams that drown my dreams, but whispers which I fear.

The hangman posts a letter home, his message indiscreet
about the vestal ****** in the café (where we meet
to savour tea and crumpets) down a one-way dead-end street.

The rapping and the tapping at my tattered, time-worn door
repeat reports of migrant myths, of tales of nevermore,
strung far across a sullen sea, most shipwrecked near the shore.

Forget-me-nots, enwrapped in rain the while a wan wind blows,
recall the faintly fickle fates this drifter undergoes –
alone, unknown with tracks interred in teardrop undertows.

My feet, no longer tied or tethered, traipse within a squall
pursuing profiles long forsaken, buried in the sprawl
of spectres spread amongst the dead, some tattooed to the wall.

At times, the belfry towers toll of anarchy and gin,
of smoke and mirrors, rolling dice and other things akin,
impaled on forks down byway roads, and things that might-have-been.

The skies outside, beyond the night with shutters shut and drawn,
begin to glow on shattered shapes escaping ’fore the dawn
as clouds undone beneath the sun release this captive pawn.
Jesse stillwater Jun 2018
Time is fleeting
as the spring river runoff
that gushes out to sea

A heart trickles out
a moment,
minute by minute,
in a timeless ink drop;
unmeasurable expanse
     immured in spilled ink ―
   manifest in the lexicon of poetry

For only purged words
cannot quench this thirst
that is loneliness;
it's a hunger that gnaws
like an unsatisfiable ache ―
a starving emptiness
all hearts
do one day taste

Left in the sight
of doubt
and eyes that fail
to believe what they see
lain fallow in the silent
indifference

Lost in a lingering void
unburied all around,
bespoken out loud
alone in plain sight
a feigned understanding;
reticent letters shape
reluctant words
to hold forth
enunciated breathe

The only words
that still echo unstilted ―
uttered  words
indelibly felt
from lips once sweet
as daybreak dew
    upon musing tongue ―
tasting the only
voiceless truth
that ever broke my heart

a vanishing wave
that moved an ocean
   deeply ...


Jesse Stillwater ... 06 6 2018
Notes:   unstilted:  Adj. - flowing naturally and continuously

Thank you for listening to my 2 cents ...
Strangers marvel as they pass
At the fire that never leaves
Yet barely any stop to look
Or rest their aching knees.

The furnace which you left alight
Still rages without witness;
A thousand feigned attempts to douse,
It burns on without forgiveness.

The fire burns brighter still
Flames cracking the furnace
Yet the fuel which burns brightest
Is often the easiest missed.

The fire rages, crackles, hisses
No moisture left to soften,
In the nighttime as well as day
The fire sits forgotten.

Another sits, hands outstretched
Loosening their furrowed brow
They smile, stand and turn around
Then wonder back into the cold.

The fire leaps our, barely contained
Destined to grow stronger
Where others burn themselves to sleep
The furnace melts instead.
‘One may have a blazing heart in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by only see a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way’

Vincent Van Gogh
HearseTraffic Sep 11
False prophet
Faith confounded

Lust akin to genocide
Indifference feigned innocence

Thirst for treachery
Disregard for rationale

Release me from captivity
Free me from passivity.
Written in September 2019
YH May 26
life is beautiful
but it is also sad
of all the good things
there is also the bad
and it feels as though the bad is always embracing the good
that there is more bad than there is good in this world

and when the mind is overloaded with the negative
sometimes the drowning can't be stopped

the world starts to understand
that the happiest people may just be the saddest
and it fills me with grief
as it is anything but untrue
true to the point it hurts me

my secret was being revealed

it strips me off my feigned confidence
and leaves me with an empty shell
empty of love
of all the good things in life

i am sad for myself
who have turned out this way

and in the end i only have myself to hold
but i do not like me
not now
not ever

so tell me

how shall i live?

— Y.H.

my own personal epiphany,
gentle fervor.
i'm asking
how do i appreciate the good
if the bad never goes away

it is my mind that i have no control over
it is just me all along

(c) Y.H.
ryn Jul 2014
Silly little dreamer with magnificent wings
Within his chest his heart beats with gold
This heart also bears of truth and stings
Stings with hurtful poison of eons old

He still marvels at his sun's majestic sight
But when dusk falls his sense took pride
The deceptions untold and half truths that bite
Shameful things that only devour him inside

Dusk falls with an exceptional ominous glow
The dreamer stayed even when his sun had set
He bellows his secrets as they will not show
Bellows with might, with disdain, with regret

In through the day he whispers of truth
He screamed of lies into the night
Lies he thought were harmless but uncouth
Truth that shone grim bereft of light

So what is truth and what is not
The dreamer cried hard for he is lost
He spat on the terms that in he has bought
Terms of which he is now paying the cost

It seems the dreamer did not come alone
There are four others that haunt in tow
He hides them away like skeleton and bone
He was afraid that his love would come to know

He once was young and know not of life
Born and bred to show respect and above
Against his will he foolishly wed a wife
His heart had died for he was never in love

He performed his bid as a dutiful partner
He feigned his interest as in it was hollow
A life so unjust, his grew devoid of vigour
Nevertheless three younglings would follow

It's too late now he has himself to blame
It's too late now he'll die an empty shell
It's too late now fear he'll bring forth shame
It's too late now breathing this life is truly hell

A heavy price for a mistake he made
He could've spoken and lived his way
Afraid of actions that father forbade
Nightly he mourns for his beatless heart so grey

He knows he can never swallow his plight
He's crying and desperation grew fat and stout
Unfathomably strong, reality's grip so tight
He devised feeble means that meant breaking out

It wasn't so simple to undo such a knot
It's not so easy for a vow to be forgot
If he stayed, his life would be for naught
Living through dreams was the help he'd sought

His travels are wide, limitless and grand
A portal to which he would seek to escape
Grants him strength for the life he has to withstand
Grants him healing for his wounds that gape

Truth be told he wasn't looking for anything
It was not love even if he had the chance
He craves for what solace his dreams would bring
Finding love was all sheer happenstance

In his dreamworld he drifts aloft
He blinds himself with music and art
He then meets his sun she was beckoning so soft
The colours returned for he has found his heart

Unbelievably pure and incredibly true
His heart could dance, flutter and even soar
Feelings he had that he never truly knew
Emotions so great he's never felt before

With this find he had found himself
Felt like he had just been born
He was locked away in a dark dank shelf
With conviction, his love he had announced and sworn

Common sense is saying, "You're digging your grave"
The dreamer insists on swimming in steep
"Swim up now and be worthy of a narrow save
We know not what lurks in waters so deep"


The dreamer listens for he's got to hear
He knows he needs to fight his doubt and fear
He knows one truth and it rings perfectly clear
He has found true love and it is here

Why am I such a silly little dreamer
On my knees, I've stripped myself bare
Only you can grant love, hope and a glimmer
Or you could send me to the depths and leave me there
I’m not of this time
Future traveler on vacation in the Land of Lost, a ship out of fuel, a world confusing, 30th century fool
I came to observe blind beings who bend to the will of a surrounding chaos

After 1000 years adrift... Tired of the creeping tedium, I’ve become one
Tired of Logging anime patches and social media confessionals for the folks back home, I became one

You see, 21st century tragedy **** is big in the future, along with Akira and the selected letters of Eugene O’Neil

I’m lost, tell my subordinates
Confused, no need of a map, I know the coordinates, but I’ve become one

You’re not supposed to fall in love on these missions
Just take manga pics, perhaps monitor your fission

But the eyes I’m lost in
A fading autumnal green
I had to see her, I had to be seen
A violation but I’m trained,
still I’m weak, a mind so ingrained
(I am one of you now)

While drunk counting slightly smeared, sparkles on glass glittered lips, I found myself: in love
I told her: “The wine taste on your tongue is sacramental
A feigned profundity, it’s incidental
(a convenient disguise for my insanity)

She doesn’t love me back. But I found myself

cdh
Jenny Gordon Dec 2018
"...minutes hasten to their close"



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXXIX)


Ah me! rain's subtle voice upon the tale
Of fallen leaves where dusk, late perished thence,
'Most haunts our passage with a deeper sense
I push aside, to hearken in betrayl
To those delicious footfalls like t'avail,
Small conversation lost to keen suspense
As lo, more fragile notes half trip from hence
So near, and yet in ghostly fashion'd hail.
As if my soul yields to feigned sense as twere,
Which swears tis but the wind whose passing through
'Non teases longings, how the windshield fer
All that shows tiny droplets clustring to
Effect; what is't that I'm allowed in poor
'Scuse to hear what I've yearned for?  Is it...You?

24Nov18a  
*NOTE:  that final individual addressed is:  the LORD.
Though I failed to jot it down in one of these damning diary pages known as sonnets, reading the Bible finally when I'd a chance did restore my soul, even as the Scriptures declare He does.
Sofia Rybkina Nov 2018
Like a raven in the storm,
Or a pure angel's form,
Like a sparkling star at night,
A warrior in his fight,
There comes love.

I have not seen 
Love as easy as a dream,
Full of struggle, full of pain,
Blest or fatal, real or feigned, 
It corrupts and it exalts:
A weapon that assaults.

Like a jewel, love unsights
Mean and noble, saint and trite,
Flies away and then, returns,
Laughs and smiles, prays and yearns,
Like the guile of your eyes,
Or the devil in disguise,
There comes love.
Andrew Oct 2018
Her eyes are sunken
And I'm still sinking
Into them
Treasure I find
In my accidents.
Drowning feigned
Became a beauty faint
The call of a friend
Are laugh lines that don't lie.
And when our grooves meet
Does a shining light crack through
To place peace between teeth
Teaching a tenacity that is true
No longer lying loose
We grew new notions to never lose
And to abnegate abuse
Then sunken eyes sought vivid views
oh, the damage to be done to this soul
should the smile be evasive
elusive
feigned
why so unwilling to risk
if the smile not be immediate and sure
and without doubt
i have lost so many
to doubt
i am unwise in the ways of love
convinced that the connection i feel
is a false sign
that you are just being kind
to a lonely soul
what can i do when i fear my words will push you away
rather than pull you in
short of a whispered  'i love you' from your lips
i remain as lost as a glance in the dark
Eryri Oct 2018
Ar ben y bryn,
There sits a paint-brush-thin monument;
A crooked rocky record built by many unwilling hands.
This cockeyed testimony announces a difficult man.
A man befriended by nature,
Whose oakish form turned in opposition to his kin,
And took root on stony ground,
And prospered on infertile soil,
And sheltered under a leafy canopy.

Y bryn oedd ei gartref,
And he lived and thrived there,
To the annoyance of the conformists:
The chapel-goers, the gossipers, the rate-payers:
They could not abide his ragged clothing,
Sweat-stewed, blood-patched remnants of cloth,
Hanging rags of garments and barely-there shoes.
Loneliness he embraced and so peace was his.

Ar y bryn fu farw,
A few feigned to mourn to satisfy their curiousity,
Wanting to view the corpse of the man on the hill,
A man who was and wasn't one of them.
And so a dissonance struck the town:
He was one of them but also one of wild nature.
He was miserably poor but enviably free.
And out of such confusion was his half-hearted monument raised.
'The Man On The Hill'
Welsh.
Emmaline Jan 1
I fold. I sweep. I double down on old stains
on a favorite shirt. I make a checklist of all the important things I will do.

I organize old paid bills and buy a new toothbrush. I listen carefully to my dog snore.

I move through the house with feigned purpose, avoid old pictures and familiar songs,
look away from old toys

as each one brings me closer to the distance
between us
and measures lost time
in court ordered custodial half-lives.

Epic disappointments span galaxies in my inner universe, taking bits of me, all
over, like stardust, to dark cold places.

There, they sit, in the ether of free floating anxiety, where all my “choices” circle me like satellites who never sleep.

carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen

gratitude, forgiveness, redemption,
love...

all taught to me by you,
in infinite measure,
my angel and my teacher

come back to me soon
and reanimate and recombine my scattered elements.
On the trials of shared parenting
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