elaine Jul 25
We are silent until we die,
As we die we inhale our last breath, and exhale a shout into oblivion. Shouting all that was not said and all that could have happened.
While you are screaming though, you question why you never said this while you were alive. Where people could take in what you have to say and possibly change. But then again how could you scream to a world with headphones in and music turned all the way up to drown out the sounds.
harlon rivers Nov 2017
The nakedness of winter lies heavy upon
the tolling Sunday quietude
Shed  leaves perish into yesterday
and the dream of another
dawning  someday wanes

The  sun ― lay low
the drudging  ashen  skyline  
Barerd emerald moss scaffolds
draw much more distantness
to the pallid shadowed horizon

The evergreens step forth,
roots grasping sacred heart,
soil  and  rock
In the swelling aloneness
you can feel the grain
of  the  heartwood
rooted in your soul

There are no hard feelings
but there's an enduring ache,
like a tree with a rotting limb
languishing  within
its blackened bark sacrifice

It's not just the grinding time
that slips away begrudgingly;
more of the same takes a toll 
as if another unrung belfry hour
in an empty bell tower
without a song rang out in vain,

peeling  reflections
of reluctant hours  c r a w l  by
in the insensible apathy

A so called holiday passes ―
its footprint bears down
hard  and  deep
as if a paling winter rose
grieves its own passing

A dry wishbone unbroken
lay bare the poignant
truth  it  holds;

it takes two to make
this wish come true


.
Written by:  harlon rivers
a winter Sunday
11. 26. 2017

Note : alternative title before
accidentally published
by write/ public/default

"Unlucky Wishbone"
I’ve finally stopped
writing
unrequited letters;
there are too many
wasted breaths
left unsent

Lapsing intentions
befallen on timeworn
tawny crumpled  pages;
aging like spent flowers
in fading earth tones
and rumpled paper regrets

Multi-hued words uttered—
mummers of voiceless exhalations
spoken without a sound;
indelible spilled ink
left behind,
lays fallow for so long

A love once new,  and
a growing silent ache—
a hungry heart
left for dead—Déjà vu

We leave a lot behind
in unspoken ink
a restless soul laid bare
by a passing moment's
random gust;

atrophied
like unwritten poetry
stifled stillborn
in a wadded up paper lament


jesse stillwater ... July 2018
feelings aren't right or wrong, they're just feelings ...
Artemis of the wood,
sweet skill of deadly
silence,
her accurate aim and steady
strength
finds the subtle seam,
between
all things.
Her swift sentry,
airborne,
elegant and true,
flies with focused
ferocity.
The soft,
wet earth
surrounds and
welcomes;
her realm of the hunt.
The scent
of the fallen leaves,
cool and colorful,
subdue
my soul.
The forest hush is all that
remains...
Poem inspired by picture at https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10213076227916353&set=a.10208174166607884.1073741828.1113041505&type=3&theater
B J Hughes Jul 29
as afterglow fades,
in tender aftercare,
we teeter on the edge
of slumber's twilight
in the lower case silence
of a softly fleecy peace
Next page