the roaring wind whistles a polar me,
opposing freely,
a hushful respite,
inside today,
silent me.

sitting in dreams,
stuck in sleeping bags,
the night before,
before the morning snagged,
my lucid want,
my lucid haunt.

outside, the wind and sun,
blow fiercely through,
the dead dried leaves,
the dusty dung,
brown, unsung,
chaos flying,
above the roof,
around the fence,
at pasture’s hooves,
one last breath spent.

again here lie,
the dreams that drift,
the dreams that die,
sounding out February's cry,
singing her last goodbye.

while the trance settles,
and untangles,
and I, sitting quiet,
witnessing the bendy brambles.

~Lana Maree Haas

On the plains of silent gasp did it wonder
Its grace wisped upon the long grass, never
Seen but like the gentle breath of dancing.
It was never hushful in this place of breath.

Air did the grass sway to the movement's
Whispering upon the motions like a melody
Of ruffled motions, it played in this fluctuating
Gesture of tranquillity that always moved.

Swaying in rhythm as if the reeds did play,
As if fond of the others movements and then
Stillness till whispers graced and the plains.
All did dance once again.

On The plain of silent gasp, unheard off torment
As this was the exodus of lost souls, every motion
Brought a sting to the soul, as swaying grass, cured
On this plain of silent breath, silent screams quelled.

Withering in torment, never delve into the silence
As breath it exhales all and joins others moments
Where vessels fell and the anguish breathed upon
The grass. each huddling for away to serenities rest.

Tired of time
   Tools and
      ticks,
Zipping up the
   perished cracks of
   heads
          distracted;
Maybe gone for good.
   The arms of our clock
       keep racing
      
           Hurried,
Hurried,
      Hushful
         Scurrying
            Worriers
Come on,
I want to hear
     the last word
       of a confident poet.