"stretches" poems
Give them to me.
All the pieces of your broken heart.
Give them to me.
I'll take them.
All the rough-hewn misshapen bits of your shattered dreams.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Give them to me.
They are wanted here.
All the parts of your misspent childhood. All the regrets of ticking seconds behind you.
Give them to me.
And we will build a cathedral. A stained glass window of who we are as tall and as beautiful as it should be.
Let me have them.
And we will make a mosaic that stretches as wide as the sky. Showing every color your heart gained from the bits and pieces left on the ground.
I will take them.
And forge a sculpture of how beautiful the ideas are that we cast out in our failings and we will cast it in our failings.
Let me have them.
And we will ***** a monument of all the small things in the shape that you remember them.
Towering. Looming. Striking. Beautiful.
Let me have them so we might bind the words said and regretted, (or worse) left unsaid in leather and call it scripture.
Our Psalms. Our Proverbs:
*“The tip of my finger dangles like my tongue. Wanting to touch something beautiful.”
“If it were not for him, it would have been us.”
“You were all my brightest colors.”
“I wish I were more like you.”
“I wish I were less like me.”
“I am sped.”*
And we will read them at dawn like litany.
Stretching our voices to the corners of the universe. Asking for the wishes you make when you are scared. Or alone. Or both.
That we may take them.
And make a blanket.
A blanket to cover our childhood and let it rest at last.
I will take them.
All the parts you no longer want.
Give them to me.
Because they are what make us beautiful.
Give them to me.
That I may forge them into pitch and feathers and craft mighty wings.
That I may take flight from your worry. And soar on the updraft of your misconception.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Because I would rather burn like Icarus than to have never dared to fly.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly go the days.
Sunrise, sunset
You wake up then you undress.
It always is the same.
The sunrise and the sunsets
You are lying while you confess, keep trying to explain
the sunrise and the sunsets.
You realized then you forgot what you've been trying to retain.
But everybody knows that it is all about the things
that get stuck inside of your head,
like the song your roommate sings
or a vision of her body as she stretches out on your bed.
She raises her hands in the air, asked you,
when was the last time you looked in the mirror?
'Cause you've changed.
Yeah, you've changed.
Sunrises, sunsets
You're hopeful then you regret.
The circle never breaks.
With a sunrise or a sunset there's a change of heart or address.
Is there nothing that remains
for a sunrise or a sunset?
You're manic and depressed.
Will you ever feel okay?
For a sunrise or a sunset your lover is an actress.
Did you really think she'd stay
for a sunrise or a sunset?
You're either coming or you just left, but you're always on the way
towards a sunrise or a sunset, a scribble or a sonnet.
They are really just the same.
To the sunrise and the sunset,
the master and the servant have exactly the same fate.
It's a sunrise and a sunset
from a cradle to a casket
there is no way to escape
the sunrise and the sunset.
Hold your sadness like a puppet, keep putting on the play.
But everything you do is leading to the point
where you just won't know what to do.
And at that moment you may laugh,
but there is someone there who will be laughing louder than you.
So it's true; the trick is complete.
Become everything you said you never would be.
You're a fool! You're a fool!
Sunrise, sunset, sunrises, sunsets
Sunrise and the sunsets.
Sunrise, sunset
Where are you Arienette?
Where are you Arienette?
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 12:29 AM UTC
"you cannot catch a wildflower"
he says.
"you are my wildflower."
I am lost inside myself
my personal paradise
my own euphoric insanity
could i be as manic as I sometimes believe
to feel as if my soul lives in the earth beneath my feet
and stretches from the root of every tree to the tips of their leaves
exhaling me into the sky to float with the wind from meadow to meadow
I stand with arms stretched
spinning in circles like a tiny tornado
grazing the tips of each blade of grass with my fingertips
dancing with my pointed toes upon dewy petals
breathing in the heavens of the earth
feeling as if the sun was shining from within me
my world could not exist without this insatiable lust for life
you cannot hold me and shelter me under the dark roof you flourish in
I am a wildflower
I need the meadows, the sky, the sun, the air, the freedom
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
I'm fat
My stomache stretches out of its place when i eat
Don't eat
I want to look in mirror and be happy
People shouldn't tease me because I'm not skinny
be skinny
Who cares if I'm unhealthy
As long as I'm pretty
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
~a question of a thousand dreams~^
“Where are you going now my love? Where will you be tomorrow? Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow? All the questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see”
this one composes itself
for all dreams go unremembered
the first, the thousandth, the every in between,
erased by the push button of opening eyes
but dreams come, marching in, saints mining the raw materiel
the quartermaster has stored, awaiting requisition by an
unarmed unnamed corp, witnessed but never seen
these dreams wisped soft willow budded, tempting taunting,
leaving nothing but unanswered questions that colored come
in black and white
elementary clues,
a pillow indentation,
single hair that stretches
across the sea between two pillows that is blonde or red
but
certainly unmine,
dregs of soured sentiment linger like the
aftertaste of too many coffees and stainless steel beers
heated summers breezes give no succor or relief,
and the rain following gives no pleasure,
for now you are hot and soaked,
but somewhere in there a dream is part replayed,
and eyes widening in major league surprise,
the question acknowledged, the dreams quest hinted
she has gone, neither happiness or sorrow will she
provide on the morrow, no toweling of your wet hair fair,
and you awake sweat besotted, it is not rain, just pain,
and it is only one dream a thousand times repeated
and what you do and what you see
is the abraded night ahead, and
you bitter laugh, for there is no more other than to think,
the question answered, and you beg relief by
uttering
“perchance to dream”
3:49 pm
see the notes!!
someone accuses me of Plagiarism
because I did not acknowledge that the quote in marks and Italics was from a famous song written 39 years ago
so here is my response to
“just saying”
congratulations on ******* me off
and yes I agree, you do not know the rules
“#1: Quotation Marks Are for Quoting People—Verbatim
Perhaps it should go without saying, but quotation marks are for quoting people. Quoting doesn’t mean summarizing or paraphrasing; it means repeating exactly what someone said. If you put double quotes around a phrase, your reader will often assume that someone, somewhere, said that exact phrase or sentence.“
http://thevisualcommunicationguy.com/2013/09/11/10-things-you-really-need-to-know-about-quotation-marks/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares
They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.
18k
These hands that have held you as a wild child in a dream are the same hands that throb to choke you and muffle your screams.
These hands which guided and guarded you down those stretches of hospital halls are now the hands that push you down to fall.
These hands once caressed the jagged, pink, scar where your heart used to lay become the hands that wish to tear it away.
These hand that made sure you fell asleep through all that pain now are the hands that would cut themselves to beat out your brain.
These hands that used to pray for you like a ***** ready to be ****** are clinched in two fist now ready to make the first throw.
These hands that ached for you, fed you, and tried so ******* hard are just the hands of memories now deep tissue scars.
... These hands.. Would have killed anyone, in dirt and cold blood.. Are now the only hands holding back the rage of my flood.
.. These hands, they still work for you. Even if you're no longer here with me..... These hands, they're still here, waiting... One day.. You'll see.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the ***** of hoofs!
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!
* * * *
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!
16.7k
It is a land with neither night nor day,
Nor heat nor cold, nor any wind, nor rain,
Nor hills nor valleys; but one even plain
Stretches thro' long unbroken miles away:
While thro' the sluggish air a twilight grey
Broodeth; no moons or seasons wax and wane,
No ebb and flow are there among the main,
No bud-time no leaf-falling there for aye,
No ripple on the sea, no shifting sand,
No beat of wings to stir the stagnant space,
And loveless sea: no trace of days before,
No guarded home, no time-worn restingplace
No future hope no fear forevermore.
15.4k
His hands are long,
calloused and inviting.
Scars tell stories,
scattered
across his knuckles.
He has one hand cradled in the other,
tapping and rubbing
his palm
with his fingers.
His mind is a jungle:
heavy, sticky, lush,
challenging to navigate,
surrounded by undecayed green
and unobstructed sea.
“Are you anxious?”
His hands are moving rapidly,
yellow parrotbills
flitting in and out of the tall tree trunks
and violet, epiphytic orchids of his mind.
Turning to face me,
he stretches his lips into a smile.
He assures me that he is fine,
but he doesn’t see any birds.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
I am somebody
Shot in the Head...
Found the bullets.
Coroner Said.
A child of God struck dead.
Gang related disputing Fools.
Aiming cowardly bullets right at you.
I guess praying prayers just won't do.
There is no safe in these hard knocks realities' Truths.
Our Sista child!
Our mother child!
All the while the bodies pile.
Her body now adds to that 'the shootings aren't as bad as last year' body count.
Can't even stand anywhere in your city NOW?
Something has to truly give.
There's a plague of rigid legalities, relaxed moralities, and political realities stealing the 'safe' from our dying breed.
The Black man withering away in siphoning inequalities.
Doubling unemployment stretches outward like a statistical wild fire....
Our present fact.
There is a genocidal component to these criminal acts.
Copyrighted (C)
Published in the 2018 Edition of the Reconstructed Literary and Visual Journal at Governors State University.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
'Why is it so painful to grow?'
A seed.
Just a seed buried under the ground.
Under the pressure of the soil,
It fights to grow.
The seed cracks,
such a sturdy little seed,
opens with a painful snap.
A sprout coils out.
Out of the cracked little seed.
A sprout now crushed under,
Under the pressure of the unforgiving ground.
Yet still... It grows.
A little sprout,
Now reaches up.
Up and away from the little seed,
and up to the light of the sun.
Pushing and groaning it bursts out.
Out from the unforgiving ground.
Yet now new dangers are to be found.
Will it be trampled
Or eaten alive?
The possibilities are endless,
The ways it could die.
And still.. it grows.
The sprout toils endlessly,
always stretching and growing
Reaching for the crimson sun.
The rain falls down
beating upon the sprout.
Pelting it's skin and whipping it about.
It skin hardens painfully,
and sprout becomes stem.
And still It grows.
The stem keeps reaching,
Stretching to the sky.
The stem then splits
It rips in two a bud appears
A little bud,
With so much to do.
Then the bud breaks
A crack appears
a petal unfurls from within.
Then it's a bloom.
Such a sweet little thing.
Until the crack stretches
So the bloom can grow
In to the beautiful rose
We've all come to know.
And still.. it grows.
Thorns burst free
Breaking out of the stem
And petals billow and grow in the breeze.
Then you see me,
And my beauty delights you,
So you wish to see me every day.
And your scissors encircle me
To give you your way.
They cut me in half.
They slice me in two.
being a rose,
There was naught I could do.
You carry me with you,
Your hands coated in my blood,
I'm dying slowly,
All for your love.
And now... I can't grow.
So as I bleed and wither in pain,
You place me in a vase
Or press me in a book,
All to save the bloom for another day.
And as I gasp for air,
Among your dry pages,
You leech me of all life,
Perfectly preserved
just so I could last the ages.
Or else I am drowning
In glass and water
My beauty wasted
hour by hour
Day by day
All to satisfy your whimsical ways.
And now all I wish to know,
'Why is it so painful to grow?'
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
Distance hurts
It touches you more than you can touch the other person
Distance hurts
Time and space both stretches infinitely, without a reason
Distance hurts
People change like postage stamps on a letter
Distance hurts
When you don't know if it's for the better
Distance hurts
You leave with them being as sweet as sugar
Distance hurts
When you come back and they seem so far
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
I sit and try and be a lotus
after killing the third fly of the evening
with a pocket book of recipes and a
thirty centimetre ruler stolen
from bathroom **** measuring contests to our knees.
Young professionals tread these boards
and I watch, trying to paint them lotus.
I listen and learn like I was told to do
then clock watch, mop, cycle home to you;
I am still trying to be a lotus
even in wet shoes and no socks.
With less than five-hundred pounds to my various names,
an office-chair-cum-clothes-horse, eight USB charging ports
and a future that stretches to Sunday’s last reluctant second,
I am sitting, trying to be lotus figuring out the professional path
David Attenborough heard in his gentleman’s class: that son of a-
- I walked into an army recruitment vault with dreams of being Gulliver,
though was asked to leave out the cat flap cathedral door back into war
as they’d got their laugh and didn’t applaud.
Perhaps I should’ve been better at maths
where apparently a career can be predicted on a scatter graph,
and the pigeons of today were the pigeons of next year and the months that’ll follow the century after that.
I am still trying to figure out the hoo-ha of ************
and ring fingers and collar sizes and the inner circles
of hyenas when the winter solstice splits the seasons.
There is no reason for this lotus procrastination
when what’s there to live for but a crooked world
and one bandage left.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
A part of me lives miles and minutes and moments away
in an indefinite, dreamy place where clocks are not my enemy
and I associate the word “distance" with travel, not longing
My heart has sailed across the Atlantic,
moved eagerly through the Indian Ocean,
navigated using an atlas inked with butterflies
and stars that gleam ardently
(just as your rosemary eyes do,
every once in a blue moon,
when you’re able to sew together
the disarrayed thoughts
that dwell in your messy head)
You are so, so far away
However, if I avoid calendars and geography,
it feels like you’re right here beside me
In the afternoon, when the sun shines
through my bedroom window
and paints the world map on my wall with light,
I shut my eyelids and run my thumb along the string
that stretches across the parchment,
connecting me to you
I pretend that when I open my eyes,
you will be here
and that my aching fingers
that are so desperately
grasping the paper
will be intertwined
with yours
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
Meticulous and true. They are so careful. So skilled. Deftly and with a swift and sure hand, the words,
Oh the words, they flow like a brooke. The one in the forest, you know the one. The one out there, out far. In the deep of the wood, over root, under canopy. Through the branches you have to look real hard. And the hard part is not knowing at all what youre looking for. And then there,
After an eternity and in an instant it is there infront of you. What you have been looking for. A vast clearing. Wide and open. The sun glints through the salt-and-peppered leaf roof. It crawls and stretches and lightly caresses everything you lay your eyes upon. Even matte mossy rocks, they seem to shine. You look down and it caresses you as well. Gentle and warm the embrace that you cant quite put your finger on. The location. The origin. It is everywhere, it surrounds you. Close your eyes. Embrace the sun back. But i digress my digression. The brook. It flows over, around, through. There is no stopping the water. It is relentless, it WILL get to its destination. You cannot change its mind. It is immovable.
That is what it is. It is beauty.
I know i should not compare. There is beauty in it all. But, goodness, the feelings invoked when reading others' poetry in admiration.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
Inches below the surface, I can feel the sun just ahead, threating my lost consciousness and tearing my body apart.
The incandescent light pierces the ground, the mountains scream fire upon the sky, crackles in the ground appear beneath my feet. What a pitiful anxiety made of sand!
My body stretches, incoming dehydration, thirst and isolation; motherly desert, fatherly wastelands...
Let me burn down to ashes and blow me to the wind.
Make me feel uncomfortable and let me disappear in peace.
I can feel the drought claiming my pain, gathering the dust that used to be my skin and remain in solitude, just like a snail then I find myself stuck in the nonchalant rage of the day.
There is nothing alive, there is just an infinite ruin of land, dead soil and dying lives turn into stone by act of time.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
Did you know that if you don't stretch in the correct way, you might end up thwarting the entire purpose of your workout and suffer unwanted injuries?
Doing pre-workout stretches thoroughly will determine whether you are benefiting from your workout or whether it's worsening your muscle tear. Here are the major stretching crimes that you should never commit.
Not doing a proper warm-up
According to gym instructors worldwide, this is the most commonly committed crimes in any gym. A warm-up is a must before any kind of workout — cardio or weights — and must ideally last at least 12-15 minutes.
Assuming that stretching is a warm-up
Stretching and warming up is not the same. You need to warm up first, before you are ready to stretch. A slow jog or brisk walking on the treadmill is a good warm-up.
Rushing through your stretching exercises
Stretching should be for the entire body. You cannot skip any parts. Involve stretches that work your lower back, shoulders, calves, stomach, quads etc. You should not move from one stretch to the other in very quick succession because that may cause untoward injuries. Try to hold each stretch for 20 seconds. When you breathe deeply and hold the stretch, your muscles get trained to tolerate the maximum that your limbs can go to.
Giving stretching a skip after a workout
You have done an hour of strenuous exercise and now you just want to rush out of the gym; that is a huge mistake. Spend some time bending and stretching after your sweat session. Then, do a cool down before you leave the gym.
Not stretching every day
You need to be your flexible best always and that can only happen if you stretch daily, even on the days that you aren't gymming. This ensures that your gym days are more fruitful and that you make the most of them.
Not breathing properly
Breathing right is a very important aspect of stretching. Breathe naturally while you inhale through your nose, expand your rib cage and upper abdomen as you fill in your lungs. When exhaling, breathe out through your mouth, preferably making an audible sound. This relaxes you. While stretching, you need to breathe out when you are exerting, that is, when you are actually contracting your muscles.
Doing static stretches
Never stand still and do stretches that work only one muscle. You should rather do stretches that work a group of muscles — like a lunge that stretches your upper hamstring muscle, your ankles and also your glutes.
Ignoring pain while stretching
When you are in the middle of a stretch and you feel pain, stop immediately and consult an expert. Your stretch should make you feel a gentle pull only, not immense pain. If you are hurting, you are doing it wrong. Rest a few days and then go back to working out under a qualified trainer.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:40 AM UTC
She sits next to him
Head on his shoulder, head on hers
Sitting in blissful happiness
The music bringing them closer and closer
The notes fill her head
Singing to her
The lyrics imprint themselves on her soul
Never letting her forget
A year ago
He remembered what she showed him a year ago
The song the lyrics the band
How?
As she sits next to him, head on his shoulder
Doubt fills her mind
Second guessing her choice
Was it a mistake?
The longer she sits the more she doubts
Was it a mistake?
What would have happened if she had said yes?
Happiness or a beautiful disaster
Would she be happy with him?
He makes her feel things
Good and bad
He makes her laugh and hate him at the same time
But that doesn't matter
What matters is that he makes her happy
A small smiles stretches across her lips as she sits there next to him
Memories flooding her mind
But the smile slowly fades, replaced by an... emptiness
Why?
Because he's leaving next year
She'll never see him again
Was it a mistake turning him down? What would have happened had she said yes?
Happiness or a beautiful disaster
She'll never know though and it is slowly killing her
But for now she'll sit, content to be next to him and almost happy
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
Tiny wrists.
Tiny rivers of blue.
Translucent.
I'm thinking about making myself a home
Beneath your pale skin.
I'd float along your lazy blue river
Until I make my way to your ghost chest
And burrow myself a tunnel
Deep inside your heart.
Light myself a campfire,
And pitch a tent.
Looks like I'm gonna be here for a while.
I am rocked to sleep with each beat:
Onetwo. Onetwo. Onetwo.
And my heart-house dreams
Intermingle with yours.
Maybe if we dream hard enough,
We can create a world of our own.
Where red blood cells sing like angels
Housed in four chapel-chambers,
And each artery stretches up far
Like a rainforest canopy
Riddled with exotic capillary-flowers.
Can we be safe here?
The heart has tender walls
But it is a soldier.
Though it may be kicked down,
It forges on
And picks itself right back up again.
Always beating,
Always winning.
Your heart is a soldier.
A fighter.
A protector.
I think I feel safe,
For the first time in a long time,
Within the home I've made for myself
Inside of who you are.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Paper thin top soil
Cracks seep through
Red dirt.
Bloodless gashes
Simmering summer soil
Baked turf.
Rolled gold haze
Aches as the
Country stretches its skin-
Near breaks
******** teeth
Tight white itches
Red earth fit-
To burst in a
Dark cloud of dust,
Choking soft as to soak
The moisture fresh
From your lungs.
Blinding blue sky
Set for worship
On a tall horizon
Too far, too high
For common souls-
To float on a
Breath of sweet dry air,
Eternal journey to sunset
Small piece of a dream
To chase a grey cloud
From sky to west.
Where subterranean
Creeks used to slip by
Rise in a slope of land
Where water once carved
Its roam
Now the winds sweep
All traces away
Back toward the sea,
And fair beyond
The aching dry eyes
Of the sons of
This red earth,
A mist lies awake
And prays for rain.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
Whispers hello as the first streams of sunlight
inch their way in through their black chiffon veil,
gleaming on our garden of stale breath,
and down feathers.
Whispers goodnight as his proud freckles
become the constellations outside my window,
and the moon stretches her arms
for another night's work.
Whispers sorry after his words became feather-lances
jousting through my arguments until my armor
was askew and torn
at its paper seams.
Whispers tales of tomorrows and fortnights
to come under illusions of rich greens, blues, and yellows
he will finger paint on my forehead
like a warrior.
Whispers goodbyes, sweet and forlorn,
as he realizes promises and paints will not keep the morning
from snatching his prized possession from his cotton laced roost,
leaving him alone with just the rays of the sun
to admire his tail.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
SUN RISES HER UP WITH ITS BRIGHT AMBASSADORS OF MORNING.
SHE STRETCHES HER PETALS SLOWLY
AND GREETS HERSELF IN NAKED FEET WITH A BLOOM OF JOY.
YELLOW TINGLED LIKE A WATERFALL GLITTERING IN SUNLIGHT.
TISSUES KEEP THEMSELVES BUSY,
SERVE HAPPINESS TO THE MAGMATIC BEAUTY OF EACH ERA.
SHE HAS HER OWN UNIVERSE WITH THE SOUL MATE SHE LOVES.
TOIL CONSUMED ALL OIL INSIDE HER,
RELAXATION BRING PLEASURE AFTER A DAY’S JOURNEY OF A DOVE.
SHE THANKED THE ANCIENT FATHER FOR THIS WONDERFUL WORLD.
BEFORE ANOTHER SUNRISE,
SUNFLOWER SLEEPS ANOTHER NIGHT AND LIVES ANOTHER DREAM.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
He stretches his neck towards his own sunshine,
exposing, proposing his eyes be dried,
needing only himself and his water’s tide
rocking him gently through his own night’s time.
And in and under his carapace
he stores the secrets of his ways,
saving them for another day
keeping content- though lone he lay.
Any sorrows he has stay buried, small in his shell;
there’s no one to listen so no one he tells.
He hides it all and hopes all will be well,
he hides it all, and all is well.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
Oh, how the new day dawns
In lavender hues of beautiful.
Tired eyes renewed by the splendor.
As it stretches to peer over the horizon,
The sun grins Good Morning.
As I bid Good Night
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 8:57 PM UTC