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Weathering due to weather’s sting,
Beware weathering due to weather’s sting,
None safe, from weathering due to weather’s sting.

Sings the face of clay,
Some song of old? Or…I don’t know….
But regardless, she hums away.

The tarnished gold, speaks th’ times of old,
When her luster was second to none,
And her silver and pearl, had told the world
The wearer was never out-done

But, gone are the days when she was shown around,
To every eye that could ever be found,
And also donned with excited glee,
To make the wearer that of a deity,

Terrified; She saw her days of luster pass, as all things of beauty cannot last,
She hoped and tried; perhaps she would be an exception
To be dignified; To the rule that stands with never altered perspective,

Powerless; she felt her beauty slip through her fingers,
Hopelessness; It’s not a song she is singing, unease now lingers,
Warning us; All we know will be reduced, by Mother, to cinders,

Her pain now apparent, how couldn’t, before, I see?
She repeats her warning to me,

Weathering due to weather’s sting,
Beware weathering due to weather’s sting,
None safe, from weathering due to weather’s sting.
s Jul 2018
If you cover me
entirely
as a fog

Then I will warm you
entirely
as a sun
random old piece
I wish I had someone to dedicate this to
kayla morrison Jun 2015
Date someone who walks into a storm.
they may be pour at weathering it,
shoes soaked, shirts clinging to collar bones
jeans suctioned onto hips
But they'll make it through.

Date a person who gets caught in the rain.
They may not expect it,
but they can handle a surprise.

Love a person who isn't intimidated by thunder.
They know how to wait it out,
the heavy air will subside in the end.

Love a person who has experienced hail,
They may be bruised by it,
but they laugh at the ice pellets perching on their fingertips.

Marry someone who walks into the storm.
They like the excitement,
but they know when to come home.

Mary someone who walks into the storm,
They'll thrive in the abandoned streets,
walking barefoot through the puddles,
dancing to the beat of your heart.
Sorry, didn't know how to keep this as a draft on my phone
jonni inferno Jul 2018
i met her    
in a waking dream    
as i walked beside    
the sylvar stream    
whose chattering laughter    
shifted suddenly    
into a sylvar pool    
of enchanted silence    
a mirrored glaze    
in muted    
misty
dawning rays    
    
her cascading mane    
a crimson flare    
sea-green eyes    
alluring stare    
my heart stopped    
to see her there    
reposed    
'pon a verdant garden lee 
beside    
the misting sylvar mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
dahlia lips    
whispering desire    
vermilion plunder splayed    
spellbound 
by her charms    
heart pounding    
thundering    
captured    
i stay    
an' wi' faire
lithesome beauty lay    
'pon a lush an' vibrant field    
beside    
the misting sylvar mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
we lay there    
lost in time    
locked    
in the silence 
of kindred minds    
an' i knew her name    
tho she spoke it not    
sipped i then
the misty morning dew    
from precious lips
that from me drew    
all that i    
ever thought    
or felt    
or knew
'pon the grasses lush and green    
beside    
the softly glowing mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
soft sings    
the whippoorwill    
the meadowlark    
an' mourning dove    
their voices weaving spells    
for lover's yearning hearts    
in the meadow    
by the way    
where my love an' i    
do lay    
entwined  
'pon the gleaming sylvan shore    
beside    
the shining crystal lake    
'neath
the weeping willow trees    
    
alas    
the dawning days    
were passing
when came malevolence    
within
a thund'ring tempest    
lightnings flashed
in ragged gashes
'cross the heaven's    
stygian passes
an' from those
gnawing caverns
spewed
a raging
howling
demon's brood
an' down flew they
by the sylvar stream
where my love
and i
entranced
did lay
beside
the mystic sylvar lake
'neath
the weeping willow trees
    
then from my arms    
vile creatures tore    
my lifesong    
my heart's blood    
my one    
and only love
her scintillating form    
they ripped    
her silent
piercing cries    
bleeding    
thru my soul
an' took her they  
far from this    
battered    
desert shore    
as her soundless    
painful    
chorus fades    
an' leaves me
here alone    
to stand    
'pon these shifting lifeless sands    
beside    
this sylvar lake of tears    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
the meadowlark    
her spellsong sings    
thru ebon winter's    
weathering    
the silver stream    
her laughter froze    
this heart    
once fire    
a soulless stone    
    
so now this raven
winged    
doth fly
to scour the bruised    
an' shadowed skies    
to find my dove    
an' bring her home    
to lay
'pon these frozen brittle stones
beside
the darkened sylvar tarn
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
thru timeless age    
an' dangerous realms    
i followed    
her silent    
morbid    
ravenings    
as her grisly    
mewling pleas    
hollowed out my soul    
'til at last    
i found her    
chained an' bound    
lost    
deep within    
peculiar planes    
an' baneful realms    
far from    
the laughing sylvar stream    
far from    
the weeping willow trees    
    
her lament    
of bitter tears    
an' fear    
sliced    
thru my defenses    
a doomed    
pernicious heart    
she was    
wandering    
thru deepest depths    
where madness reigns    
all hope destroyed    
hell's minions    
reveled
unconstrained    
    
my dove    
called i    
my love    
'tis i    
once more    
thrice more  
time  
and time again    
till finally    
she hearkened    
to my voice    
    
true love    
recall us    
you and i    
dancing    
thru ageless realms    
consider us    
twirling    
under heaven's wings    
she
spinning
at my fingertips

an' i  
drew her then    
breathless    
into my arms    
ambrosia lips    
her sweet alms    
from her dark pain    
i did drink    
of her    
malignant sorrow    
i did partake  
my questing    
thirsting hunger    
willingly  
did i sate  
gathering all    
her shattered pieces    
from those altered    
blighted    
reaches
    
chains    
now broken    
i carried her
'pon wings    
of true love's    
sylvar light    
far from    
these darksworn legions    
into    
the dawning night's    
farthest regions    
    
an' there    
close by    
the laughing    
whispering    
sylvar stream    
lay her gently    
'pon the verdant flowing shore    
beside
our gleaming slyvar mere    
'neath    
our weeping willow trees    
    
under glimmering    
starlit heavens    
sing    
the whippoorwill    
the meadowlark    
an' mourning dove    
whose soulful songs    
compose    
for yearning lovers    
charms of hope    
where pools    
the laughing    
sylvar stream    
whose mirrored gaze    
draws us deep within    
celestial    
starlit    
wanderings    
  
as the wind    
whispering
sighs    
thru our hearts  
as we lay entwined    
'pon a verdant garden lee    
beside  
our misting sylvar mere    
'neath  
our silent    
weeping  
willow trees    
      
p j upchurch
Christopher Lowe Oct 2014
So appears another empty promise
I made to myself
In this disinterested cloud of delusion
What once were my dreams
Are now dull precipitates
Pooling into my minds crevasses

I may appear calm on the outside
But a storm rages in my mind
This too I will weather
And come out the other side
For the better
As a darkness descends to these troubled lands,
carefully watching are those who feel a cold shrill,
hear with frozen aching,
breathing in the quickening frost...

Growing hoary slowly,
as the rime it seeds,
pressed blades of grass feel the man in need...
This is a toll that must be paid!

Her fleeting thoughts dance with the wind as she twirls about spinning into the winter’s descent...

Darkness falls and so doth she,
her thoughts in brightness, uncoupled glee,
her heart in love and mind carefree...

A sweeping, dashing, vision he shows,
In moon as deep earth,
her sweet heart glows,

“Forget the quickly, approaching fee!”

“Dear Night, oh Darkness; spare this man!”

“I see you, -hear me for I plead too, I’m watching from your ice-gripped troubled land!”

“Take me instead; I’ll pay his cost or your dark soul is truly lost!”

“I twirl with woe, I dance thus so, -wanton abandon…
the shivering cold and this ice I stand in,
Your chill, the frost, the illness and the terrible cost,
...our crops and all our people lost,
and still I shall ignore your hand!"


THEN HE DIES!

“No, your reparations I thus will pay!
Leave us now, unburden this land, your frory wind is not his plan,
God does love us, -he’ll stay your hand!”


“Some sign, an answer, please, oh please!
On frosted grass I press my knees,
will you not hear my lovelorn cries?
Why must you take him, why must he die?
I cannot stand so idly by!”


“How can you torment such good men, our town, our lands, tis ours, our home this place you’re in?"

Frigid heart of icy Dragon,
feels not nothing, mourns no loss,
bears down harder with his frost
and punishes them all for a sin...

“You beastly anger!”

“The cold hand of darkness in my eyes, my heart burns bright with moonlit scorn!”

A trumpet sounds when lightning strikes,
and thunder heard, it splits the night!

“A toll too great I shall not mourn,
Soulless winter’s passing bound,
in frosted days of chilling found,
You maketh tender hearts thus lost.
Your winter brings her frozen frost,
You tear and break frozen land asunder,
destroy our love our hearts you plunder!
Be gone such evil, lest love soon die, my heart he holds, my soul and sky!”


“Your freezing laughter has distended me…”


Storm God

“Clouds of fury, thunders might, upon that moon, clouds cover her light!"

"Sweeping winds, wisps of ice and snowy swirls opaque the night, freeze that man, take his life!”

“Break, then shatter with my cold spells of ice, he, then she, with no respite; I shall forever control the night!"

“Tell tale of love to me in playful fancy?”

“The darkness I bring; cower as your lives in fright, no man shall evade my thunderous might!”

“Sway me not oh fairy dancer from my cold winter in your bones shall arise a chilling cancer!”

“Destroy I must and hear you not, your land in peril with a wind I roar, cry you will in pain and so much more!”

“I am this world’s white awful sore!”

“Beg you shall, whimpering dearly, for darkness cometh so swift, severely!”

“Feel it, hear it, a painful sound my thunder shatters the peace with world renown!”

“As once, as was, forever more and now I smite so deafening score, I deliver you both to death’s door!”

“There is no heart within this storm; there shall be no heart in earth forevermore!”

“Love you say”

“…as if I know?”


“BE GONE NOW CURSED MOONLIT GLOW!”

“No life, no love, no NOT nothing, no, from nothingness I come and to nothingness you go!”

“Thus an answer to your pathetic dancing, your spinning motions, your frivolous prancing,"

“A stronger wind, a tor-na-do, witness the awful power I sow,”

“...my heartless mind to which you sing, out dance that you spineless twinning!”

“Die!”

“Yes, -die!”

“With his dead heart I’ll crush your soul for yours IS my quest to break!”

“Time is such a fleeting flower and Lo, I come with all my power, your time has come this is the hour!”

“I hate your love; die for me, your bond is cur-sed I decree!”

“My children are the Nephilim, their snowy crystals I turn to rain and freeze it quickly about your ankles for you as he, shall not escape, nothing, no one shall escape, all the creatures shall die this time for I am the maker of the flood, I am the abyss, the king of wisdom, the tree of knowledge, the one of action, crowned master of the earthen plane, the king of gods and king of kings and origin of all things, if God there is then he is I and what I create I shall make die! Know this mere mortal, the name of betwixting thing you learn…”

“I am that old God known as *Sah-turn!”

“My toll do I demand from thou!”

“My toll I ask, I DEMAND IT NOW!”



Sobbing sadness as she prostrates her hands to ice, her ankles bound and crying is the only sound...

The ego of the deity is in question, she searches for another way, a path of inquiry to make him stay, for the horrible fate wrought this day and lands of beauty coldly buried away...

For what could change the mind of darkness?

“Master, I see the wheels have ground to a halt and you’ve descended from the heaven’s vault but how can such lowly animals and nature be at fault, for is it not the goblins of the saw that should be punished, that should be sought?”

“Those who chop away at your great tree are the ones who smile with uncoupled glee for they smite your creation and tear it down and care not for your might, your world renown!”

“All nature is but your possession, oh timeless infinity I do not question, your purpose or need but I do ask, nay beg of thee, allow my love to thus be free, let us hold each other if we die, see my supplication, hear my cry!”


“If let go we will with all haste and prudence, your wrath is great and our presence a nuisance, away from this troubled land you’ve made, the frozen tundra of the grave, a night wrapped by your terrible song in this evil place we do not belong,”


"...please let us run!"


“You have cloaked the beauty of the moon,  covered her sky, I beseech you master hear my cry above the thunders of your sky, wrestle free my love from grip, let us pass, let us slip, let us go this night, oh great black wheel and great north wind and wolf and beast and Dragon from the faraway east and master of the air and seas and Lord of all as your voice decrees, I beg here on my dying knees,”


“The toll you demand is a life for a life, save him, put me under the frosty knife!”


Rumble, rumbling pondered thoughts, the wind is ceased and snow dies down and ground gets soft as air warms up and moonlight shines as clouds dissipate while the god of night decides their fate...

Her sobbing subsides as the ice and snow become water and seep into the earth, her dress soaking and hands covered in mud she addresses this king of kings once more. She stands and fills her lungs with warmth and begins to dance a dance of thanks to him who is hidden but a chilly wind shows that it is still forbidden. Her love watches from yonder far hill as she holds back her dance and stands so still, calling out to the color of night, stern her voice has no sign of fright...

“Punish the land and make your mark for that will teach us to give offerings to the dark,”

“Give rage unto that which hath no heart, pummel the earth and sink the ark.”

“Oh he is such a jewel to me, I’ll dance no more, I’ll show no glee, and no happiness to smite your sea in your great debt I thus will be!”

“Call your hordes, all four to thee, let them of wisdom punish me, my dancing finished great Gyges, your ring of darkness; oh wine-dark seas!”

“The four are eager for the flight to crack the seals and split the night, and show the signs, enact the plan, and run dark in blood this troubled land.”

“You see my master? We know your tales and tell our children the wonder and the mystery of our ark that floats upon your sea and all the things we know you make for we teach our children of them for heaven’s sake!”

“As natures hand you make the call, Oh Famine! Oh Pestilence! Oh Plague! Oh Death, -bring them all!”

“Come now in darkness for your master calls, his voice too loud as to be vague…”

“Run we shall, away, away…”

“Your great power, oh great one, the shatterer, thunderer, the bringer of the nightly fall, watch your subjects cringe and crawl, and supplicate on hands and knees with praise upon your mighty awe.”

“Why not bring them? Bring them all?”

“Enforce your toll, make your presence known, reap the seeds of what you’ve sown, our lives have always been yours to own, for you are great upon this land, your fury descends with mighty hand, now and forever shall it be known, no man can seat above your throne!”

“The trees thus stripped of their leaves and these hands are whipped upon our grieves,”

“Save my love from those stinging leaves from wintery chill and icy snows, hand of darkness, north wind that blows,”

“Lightning strikes and deadly throes,”

“In mercy your true power shows,”

“For you are the master, king of night, maker of fear, of horrible fright, the Ouroboros, the clouds your wings, the heaven’s motions, order of all things, the one who rings the magnificent treasure, the source of all our earthly pleasure, one to which we all do pray, -alas Ethiopia, dawn a new day!”

“The moon descends as does your power tis dawn you fool, that is the hour!”

“You can keep your anger and unpaid toll we’ll keep our love, our lives and my gentle soul.”

Storm God

“YOU DARE! YOU DO! YOU MOCK ME STILL?”

“Here comes my weathering, wintry, malicious chill!”

“Child die as your suitor must, this night, this storm, this hour unto my lightning ******! Rain, hail, fury thehowling winds of wolven glory and end I put to this sorrow’s story, down the trees, wash away the lands, rip apart the heavens know my hand!”

“…and what is this nocturnal noise?”

“In my storm are birds chirping? Is that daylight on horizon now? Nature cannot desert me, no, not now!”

“The daybreak shines, undoes my vow, ceases my storm and scatters my clouds; know this mortal is not the end for I shall come back again!Your words and pleas will not save you then, this trickery I shall not forget, your souls I’m coming back to get and when I do you’ll grovel in fear for you’ll know the moment of death is near!”

“On that night you’ll pay my toll, I SHALL NOT REST WITHOUT YOUR SOUL!”
A tribute to my favorite poet. Edgar Allen Poe.
a maki Feb 2012
find the symmetry in the snow
lining the windows as the storm passes by.
fog up the lenses, as they try to document the sky
and its peculiar patterns.
Michael P Todd Sep 2010
A deep breath—I fill my lungs and close the airway. Submerge my face in a pillow and resolve myself to wait until my lungs burn—I await the pain. My senses screaming, my lungs driving me to let them have the oxygen they so desire—I decline. Funny how I chose that which offers peace to the weary, an item that invites comfort to rob myself of that most archaic means of surviving. I find it interesting how calm I feel while denying myself that which I know I cannot live without. Isn’t it odd how we only become aware of the subtle currents of air that tickle our skin, raising chill bumps where it finds us bare when we deny ourselves its luxury? Luxury. That’s an interesting way to phrase it really—Breathing as a luxury. A gift of power, smug in our abuse and neglect we fail to see what we loose when we breathe. Lying here refusing to give myself life—for that’s what air is really, and breathing is living. I laugh. Oh yes, I find it funny. I catch myself readying to breathe again and I still that notion. Shove it down; subdue it until it is nothing but a stinging memory in my chest. It takes a lot of strength to deny yourself to breathe. But somehow that only drives me to test that strength.
I wonder if I will forget how? Could the muscle memory that pilots such a necessary involuntary act be forgotten? No, of course not. But perhaps the feeling of fresh air full of life could be. Could it? Perhaps not. For even as these words find themselves onto this page I find myself remembering what it feels like to expand my lungs, for the blood to cool as it gathers its fill with oxygen as it travels on its wending cyclical way. I laugh again. The burn begins to spread and I feel my muscles atrophy. Yet they tighten and tense as if under assault, screaming at the atrocity wrought upon them. Though still I refuse to breathe.
I roll away from the pillow, open my face to the still air and feel it tickle as it tries to find a weakness. Denying my lungs for so long I begin to feel my skin breathing. Absorbing oxygen as cellular mitosis continues in spite of my flirtatious dance. Maybe I am just dreaming. I feel the fire subside. As if my body accepts its doom. “No breath for you,” I say. “No easy outs.” And resolve continues.
Amazing how long a person can go without breathing, pushing ever closer to that most primal fear—that of not being able to breathe. But I can. I feel my chest involuntarily expand, demanding the very thing I strenuously withhold. I know by that alone that I can breathe, I can live. But still not once do I begin to inhale the sweetness that I need. I want it now, but the primal is so enticing. After all, it is when we fear that we truly know what it is to live. That’s when we feel life. As if it were a tangible being that we’ve strapped to ourselves so that it won’t escape. I’ve set mine free. I’ve let go. Maybe it will return to me. Maybe it will leave me in my vain attempts to deny myself to continue fickly on to another. But which do it want--Perhaps neither, perhaps something more. Beyond breathing, beyond mere muscle memory, beyond what I cling to. The Pain returns.
I want to breathe. I want to live. I want to feel the rush as all my body awakens and revels in new existence--Rebirth. Its odd how something so ordinary can redefine a person, how something so obviously taken for granted and ignored can make us anew—a Renaissance of living, giving new life to life, helping life live. That’s just funny to say. My chest chuckles--I can’t laugh. I can’t breathe so how could I anyway? I smile. Vanity is alluring. I am vain. I deny that which defines life just to feel alive. Vanity, Luxury, Rebirth, Pain—such is the nature of my breathing, the archaic nature of involuntarily driven muscle memory.
Would I even know how to breathe if it wasn’t burned into the most ancient quadrants of my brain? I don’t even know the part that drives the muscle memory. Perhaps when people die there are a few lingering moments where their lungs contract like the twitching mouth of a decapitated fish, gulping at air to fill dead lungs. Maybe breathing is so primal that it doesn’t end with the rest of the body.
The burn has come. I can feel the fire inside my chest. I welcome its warmth, rubbing my hands over the radiating inferno as if I just came from the dead winter cold without the weathering to block out the chill. The warmth permeates through me. Would breathing feel better than this? Could it? I doubt. Only at the razor edge of life while teetering upon the precipice stealing insecure glances to the other side on the off chance that we may glimpse a greener field do we know what living really is.  So aren’t I living now more so than ever before? Whilst denying myself a breath, aren’t I more aware of what it means to be alive? I laugh. Denying yourself air only leads to an end. No, the end--Death. Yet I appreciate life more so dying than living. I deserve to die. Taking for granted that which is stolen from innocents daily. Innocent? Now that’s a peculiar ideal. They are the same. I wonder if they are aware that they breathe. That’s absurd, of course they are. How could they not be? ******* life, ******* air, but do they know what it means?
I feel my lungs contract again—Pain. That’s all it is now, but why? I know I can breathe, yet I choose not to. Is it the act of forcing myself not to take a fresh breath, or the fact that I have yet to do so that hurts? Maybe it’s because I now know what I’ve been doing all these years. At the brink I realize what it means to live. Was I living before? Yes, but I wasn’t alive. Interesting that, to live without being alive—sounds as if I’m hooked to a load of machines keeping me from decay. That’s all they do really. Awareness, that’s living. Breathing is merely the means. The end is being aware, awakened to the fact that an action which you can’t control is the only thing keeping your head above ground. After all, even when drowning the body wants to breathe.
I open my mouth. I lie to my body. I still fill my lungs with nothing but stubborn desire, desire to delay my breathing. I imagine what it will feel like to take that first breath—a Renaissance of living. I can feel the blood in my veins bubble in anticipation. My body wants to be alive. My heart can’t beat fast enough. Striking a furious pace it pumps my blood through my body spreading life and oxygen to every limb making me light headed and delirious with its purity.
I’ve decided. I’m going to breathe again. I’m going to live. And what’s more, I’m going to be alive.
My mouth still open, my lungs still closed, still screaming, still burning, still tightening in their involuntary way—breathing air that isn’t there, air that they know is there, available to them at their whim. I open my lungs.
I exhale. Now that is interesting. I’ve denied myself the life of breath until my lungs begin to pump out of sheer memory and longing for that which gives them purpose. Denied that which defines life, that which I want—that I need. And I exhale?!? Further delaying what my instinct has told me to take? How is that logical?
Air rushes into my lungs. Funny, I scarce expanded them at all. I feel the life rushing to my fingertips, to my toes, to my ears and eyes—to my kidneys even. I am alive. It’s funny though. Part of me feels like I’ve just died, like I’ve ceased to live. I laugh long and hard, throaty and merry and so brim full of life. I began to live again, became alive at the very instant I ceased to exist. And it is so funny.
Colton McKay Oct 2011
the air is clammy, and my hair is on end.
the shades have drawn but my curtains are open.


the looming creature crawls across the sky, lurking nearer.

such swift summer heat disappearing instantly.

the leaves crunch, crawl, and scrape.

out there, i would fear the booms and grumbles.
out there, the blundering weather has bounded into the yard.


the gloomy, depressing clouds are larger than ever and weigh down the air.

however.

i’m at peace.


a new discussion arises between myself and a friend, or maybe no friend at all, but a discussion all the same.

i find comfort here.

i seek refuge when otherwise not needed.

But the boisterous bazaar begins to recede, barely able to hear, the crowd keeps crawling across the sky.


as quickly as it started, i find myself longing for another reason to feel comfort-another reason to seek refuge…

For here, i feel comfort.
d Jan 2015
I am the rainy day that ruins your plans.
That ghost fog that leans over your shoulder to haunt you,
the droplets that look suspicously like tears,
the wind that ruins your favourite umbrella and doesn't quite sweep you off of your feet.
I'm that miserable day. I am that ******* rainy day you saved everyone else for.
It's just that I thought you loved the rain like I did.
But then the sun came out
and I guess you changed your mind.
Amitav Radiance Oct 2014
While sitting under a tree
I could touch the roots above
Wondering, how deep they traveled
Each one holds ground
Creating a network
With the synergy
Communications takes place, there
And passes through the trunk
Right up to the branches
When leaves whisper among them
Trying to communicate with wind
To pass on the messages
Those are rooted deep
What may be going on there
We will not know
Roots that explore beyond
Century of stories buried
This tree stands testimony
To the events
The tree stands tall
Weathering many adversities
With roots to bear all
Which have traveled deep
Enveloped by rich soil
Robert Dimas Apr 2014
The stillness after a fresh snowfall
Unsettles as senses heighten.
The bright sky hangs and falling ever closer. 
The air is alive with a buzz of the gift. 
Through the night light shines as day
And serenity sings.

Fire rolls across the sky, a mighty titan
The lightning dances in and out
The rain falls washing away all disdain
Of what never was.

Your words light the black sky of my mind
Like sparklers and fireworks though
You couldn't ever know.
It’s something about you that I just can't get over.
That hold over me like
The greatest story never told.
JParker Jan 2015
One of us sees a storm.
visibility is low,
winds are high,
as a blizzard swirls and howls.
The hazy sky rages forevermore.

It's always been, and will it always?
At the corner of her room,
her face is hidden by emotion.
Soon snowflakes will fall for the last time.

The other sees nothing but the same.
The same old rain
Every single day.
The grey sky sheds its tears infinitely.

Its always been, and will it always?  
At the corner of her room,
She rests her head on a fist.
Soon the yellow rain jacket will find its hook.
Àŧùl Feb 2014
In my ancient age, I foresee, I will be happier
I will be happy in your sweet companionship
It will be all smiles with grandchildren o'ours

So happy will be our marriage, I tell you dear
Tender & soft along with all our time aplenty
We will leave this life to sleep away peaceably
My HP Poem #535
©Atul Kaushal
Mikaila Aug 2013
In the heart, most people are temporary.
They roll off like tears shed and fall away,
Not forgotten, but finished.
But some people...
Some people have no horizon.
Some people are forever.

When I met you, you were vast.
I saw the ocean in your eyes.
I heard waves crash in your voice,
Rough and low and musical like the tide.
You're like a storm on the ocean,
And I drowned in loving you.

I didn't know what it was,
Didn't know what to do.
How could I?
You were the first.
Before I met you I'd never
Wondered if somebody's lips were soft to kiss
Wished I could reach out and touch anyone's cheek with my fingertips
Just to feel the warmth of life beneath their skin.
I never treasured the sound of anybody's pulse
As they hugged me
Until I met you.

I'm afraid I floundered,
Like a moth who had seen the moon in the waves
And tried to kiss its cheek
Only to stick to the mirror like water
And flutter madly, trying to stay afloat.

I learned, slow.
I grew.
I knew though, underneath I knew
I'd never get over you.

As the years blurred by
Like raindrops sliding down a windowpane
You were a constant in my heart,
Faint but vital.
As I shed my skin painfully and became...
Calmer, I suppose,
Less hopeful, less wildly passionate,
You lingered,
And the thought of you changed as I did,
But the love never left.

It's absurd, really, that I love so instantly
And so permanently.
But...
I saw your eyes four years ago
And my entire world changed.
I saw your eyes and I wanted to see only them
For the rest of time
The way I can stare at the path the moon makes along the sea
For hours and never tire of its subtle beauty.

I was afraid of you,
Of the power you had over me.
I just shrank back, stood aside and watched you be who you were,
Awed.
I quietly loved you like I'd never loved anyone,
And when you were gone I found that the thought of you
Was not.

And since then it has remained in my mind,
So constant and so quiet, like the white noise whisper of the surf on the sand at midnight,
That I hardly notice it anymore.

Back then, I could have fallen to my knees at your feet.
Back then, I couldn't help but be the fool
Who trailed at your heels
Because I was held there by gravity.
Back then, I couldn't hide a thing.
But now...
I've learned how to go under.

Many times since then, I've felt the fire of salt burn in my lungs,
I've lost my sight of the surface.
I've drowned in a love so deep
It soaks up all the light and consumes any heat,
Crushes the air from my lungs.
Many, many, many times I have felt death
Dashed upon the rocks by brutal storms and black waves.
And as I struggled
I saw your eyes in my head,
Grey and deep and beautiful
Like clouds finally breaking into soft rain,
Like a flower unfurling.
And I kept on.

And eventually, I learned to weather the storms and currents of my passions.

I learned.
To breath deep when my head breaks the surface,
Not to fight the undertow when it wraps its icy fingers around my ankles and yanks.
To show you what you can handle seeing from me,
And to accept that maybe I can't give you anything
But a reverence in my heart and a place in my mind
Where the thought of you will always be
Like a soft summer rain in the morning,
So light and fine that it hangs like mist for a moment before floating to the grass.

Some people are forever.
Some people never leave your heart, your mind, your soul.
Whenever I see you again,
It is like coming home.
It doesn't matter anymore that you don't love me.
I love to see your face,
Your eyes like a rainstorm,
Little lightning strikes of mischief or inspiration crackling within them.
Your little mannerisms and ways of standing that grab at my heart.
I love to hear you speak,
Notice the words you choose
That nobody else ever thinks to use,
And the rise and fall of your husky voice
With the rhythm of a tide against a shore.

I love to be near you
And appreciate every moment of you,
Here in my head.
I am good, now, at weathering the elements:
You see not the poetry that flows across my mind,
Words in a rush that break in swells over my head
And find a push and pull to sway me like a current.
You see not the magnetism, the urge to reach out to you,
Nor the tenderness that I've trained to lie still in my heart.

It only sleeps, you see, like a dog curled at the hearth:
My passion for you surrounds me when I see you,
In ebbs and flows and eddies,
But passively, dreamily.
It feels like standing at the bottom of the sea for a moment,
Anchored but suspended just barely
With my feet hovering on the sandy bottom,
Being tugged gently to and fro by the water.

I let it wash over me, my ardor, but I do nothing,
Only enjoy how soothing it feels, to know I can love so deeply.  
For I have learned that souls don't need air beneath the sea,
And so I have forgotten to struggle, struck motionless by silence and peace.
When I see you now, I treat you like the old friend you are,
Someone cherished, someone missed,
But calmly so.
And underneath loving you has become that.
I lived with my head above the water for so long,
Fighting, striving,
And now all it is is that I have realized
That that was only the surface,
And there is so much more.

I love you like the ocean.
Wild, desperate, powerful and chaotic
As the waves that dash themselves upon the cliffs, white and foamy and brutal,
But also silent, restful, calm and deep
As the underneath is, slow and blue and graceful.
The battle and the surrender,
That is how I love you.
Both at once, like the sea is.
Vast, like the sea is.
The fight hardly matters, the losing of it,
The nevermore-
I love you in a way that needs no possession, no validation.

Ever changing, but eternal nonetheless,
Like the sea is.

Some people have no horizon.
Some people are forever.
Ashlyn Kriegel Oct 2013
Everyone leaves a footprint on you
Whether you like it or not,
As if you were a beach
Filled with many footprints
Of many people, of many strangers;
But the tide incessantly beats ashore
And washes away some footprints,
Regardless how deep,
Whether you like it or not.
s Sep 2019
I’m surrounded by a storm.
his soft lips
gentle nips
The subtle touches feel warm.

I’m surrounded by a breeze.
his growling sound
carnal cries drown
The needy aches feel ease.

I’m surrounded by a fogbow.
his smoky eyes
riding out highs
The shared worlds feel a glow.
random old piece
inspired by NSFW fanart
thatdreadedpoet Jul 2013
i am a feather
weathering a windstorm
fragility is my definition
please
remember that
Poetic T Apr 2018
Secluded from sight, in a veil of emptiness even
starlight is destitute. Lingering no breath upon its
scared visage, a masquerade of untruths to believe in.
showered with afflictions of a system that never quits.

But obscurity hides wonders, gazing into the ether
beyond the veil is sight beheld. Its the unblemished
beauty of a universe. Elegance, pain beneath her.
beyond an exhumed silence, scared misery perishes.

For though never observed, secluded in taking the pains
forever, would scar with lamination beneath a blue
floating pearl. But tears scar the surface, all do remain
fractured reminders, a sacrifice that's never in view.

We blindly never gaze beyond the brightened side gleaming,
weathering our salvation, the dark side of the moon redeeming.
Moon Sonnet dark side of the moon
Jens Malmgren Mar 2019
The Cambrian period had 7000ppm of CO2 in the atmosphere.

That was a time of the perpetual fire.

Even though the solar luminosity at the time was 4% weaker than today, the earth was much hotter due to the free amounts of carbon dioxide.

Slowly chemical weathering and living organisms bound the carbon in the atmosphere so, at the time of the Carboniferous period, it had reached 180ppm.

The earth was much cooler. A wonderful time with 34% oxygen in the air.

Then after this period, flood basalt eruptions, such as the Siberian traps and the Deccan traps released vast amounts of CO2, and this caused the earth to heat up again.

That was an inferno. 90% of all life died.

This followed by slow weathering out of CO2 and subsequent cooling.

When the CO2 levels are in low and balance the earth temperature change due to the Milankovitch cycles. During such period the climate always changes.

We even had ice ages during this period.

Now there is no flood basalt eruption at all. This time it is we humans who released the CO2 in the atmosphere. It took us one hundred years.

Earth will be warm. It will be hot.

(Source: youtu.be slash r7aZ6vqCk2E)
Pearson Bolt Sep 2015
a black flag is suspended
above the garden in
my front lawn
it flexes in dawn's sweet  
breeze and ***** in the
mid-morning sun then snaps
in afternoon gusts
before weathering the storms of
early dusk and ultimately subsiding
into the relative serenity of an
uncertain twilight

a black flag prepared to
face the elements once more
at a moment's notice

even now i hear it slapping and cracking
as if it were possessed by
the manifestation of the people's will
an outcry indignant at the indignities
humankind and this good earth have suffered
at the hands of faceless men and
women who succumb to
the illusion of dominance

i take that black flag down
whenever i go out my front door
i fold it up into a tiny handkerchief
tuck it neatly in my breast-pocket
where it rests mere millimeters
from my heart as i do what i can
to teach my students to live
with such vibrant tenacity
that their very existence is
an act of rebellion

i wear the black flag around my neck
every time i go to shows it
soars behind me and i
feel superhuman as i stand and
sing in tandem with a myriad of
friends in the throes of some
melodious cadence harmonizing with
down-tuned guitars and pile-driving percussion
the rest of the galaxy and i lose track of
space and time adrift  
in the rhythms of resistance

i tie the black flag around my head
to keep back the sweat beading about my
brow every time i bend down and
break my back once more for my
corporate overlords who can no longer
see the forest for the trees let alone
be somehow appeased by the simple joy
of sharing books with random strangers
their eyes are glazed green with envy
and i wonder when they sold their
souls to the devils on capitol hill

i wave the black flag at protests
as we occupy the streets and
feed the homeless and cheer
wildly for complete liberty
in time with the beat of drums
our footsteps aiding in a
procession that shakes the houses of
decadence capitalists lurk within and
causes the corrupt to tremble
with trepidation as they turn to one
rich white neighbor after the other
and ask one another
what have we done

like no flag before it and no banner since
the black flag waves all humanity away
from the precipice upon which we lean
so perilously teetering over the edge
flirting with death inches away from
a bottomless abyss

its blackness stands in stark contrast
from the blue hues that evoke oceanic
divides or the red streaks symbolizing
bloodshed or the white blotches that elicit
some tacit implication
of supremacy and exceptionalism

it is black
whole and uniform
indicative not of segregation and
national barriers but of unity
universal fraternity that comes not
from conformity but out of a genuine
desire to recognize the inherent dignity
of all humanity—even those with whom
we might vehemently disagree

there is not a shred of
cowardice in the black flag
it means no surrender
it recognizes no authority
it is not subservient to a titular country
but predicated on the principle that
freedom equality and responsibility
are not trigger words for
selling successful political campaigns
but are the natural and inherent virtues
that make us sentient human beings

the black flag defies
the oligarchic minority and
returns once more to the wellspring
of individuality and community and in
doing so produces a space where
originality is the centripetal force

power to the people now
invert the stars and stripes before
turning them to fuel for the fires
in our chests like Prometheus we wrest
divinity from the gods masquerading above
us in the halls of congress and the senate
white houses are not temples of worship
we have it in us to create a community
where we don't need representation
where we determine our own future

revolution is a lived concept

a black flag is suspended
above the garden in
my front lawn
it flexes in dawn's sweet  
breeze and ***** in the
mid-morning sun then snaps
in afternoon gusts
before weathering the storms of
early dusk and ultimately subsiding
into the relative serenity of an
uncertain twilight
Life is a pill that I find best to be swallowed with hard liquor. I felt God-like when I first discovered alcohol; how sweet a bird it was to keep the world at such a distance. I could talk about all the ways I feel like the world owes me something, like it owes me repercussions for all these storms that I've weathered. I am graceless and ***** and bitter. I am teeth and nails and broken smiles. I am a wreck in search of a ship. I throw punches without knowing where they'll land. I act now and I apologize later. I am messier than you wanted. I won't pretend there's anything special about my suffering, I won't pretend it isn't self-inflicted. I tell you it's fine and that I'm used to burning in the fires I start and that I'm not scared of scars or sleeping alone, but my mother says I can't carry all this hurt around inside me forever. She says one day I'll just collapse. One thing I've learned about reality is that it does not have the decency to remove its rings before it hits you hard, so you might as well learn to keep it at a distance.
Vanessa W Jun 2012
I'm the rock
At the edge of the water
Who sits there
Relentlessly
While the waves crash over me
Changing me
Wearing me
Breaking me
Until I am no more
Then I'm carried out to sea
Lost and gone forever
Marya123 Aug 2016
One year can change it all
It can make you rise, it can make you fall.
One year can blow your mind
Into the dust of forgotten land mines.
One year can **** the soul
Shrapnel holding together broken whole.
One year can bring you hell
A gaunt face with no good stories to tell.
One year can make you search
For bad answers that leave you in the lurch.
One year ago today I left for doom
As the demons lurked waiting in my room.

Yes, one year can change things
Cowering in fear of what the future brings.
Weathering out life's ****
Trying to get up once again when hit.
Every day a battle
Of a mere calf against the best cattle.
Is it won? I know not
I’ll only give it everything I’ve got.
Oh it hurts, will I find
What I’m looking for, leaving past behind?
These are small questions I can put out there
As my fingers work till they’re worse for wear.
Installed in the Eclectic Parallel World of the invisible portal of Saint John the Evangelist, everything levitated in his sacred basaltic cavern in Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA). They would find themselves in communion with the clan count, resembling being in their proper ectoplasm; conforming to the only part of masonry ruled to redirect them in the messianic workings of the ascension stages. Vernarth; he besieged in the conscious state of him having to adhere to the cavern, after having finished his labors by waiting three months. He risks being consumed by the myriads and conflagrations, retracting them in parapsychological clouded ways, which subsisted to consecrate themselves in the lavish places divided towards the horizon. The iridescence threatens the primary ultraviolet, lifting the carriage of Apollo Citar, a neighbor of the astronomical cave sketch of the Muse Urania. A lame nuance escapes and dissolves from his mathematical prayer, capturing the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos, inserted in the death throes of his embryonic revelation, to pour him into the Megaron to build.

The saint appears only on certain days looking at Vernarth from afar, to encourage him in his progress on the rocky rocks of sharp silica, he is seen as a beautiful adonis dressed in a chlamys with delicate pinkish tones. With such scruples, he redounds a psalm of the angel that normally accompanies the Evangelist around him, with greenish and indigo tones in the perspective quadrinomial of heaven, that he was perishing in his most afterlife redemption in the glory of the empyrean. More convenient than the superlative spiritual intelligence irrigated with the aldehyde, and the condensed water of Skalá, in hecatombs that indicated anarchies of the luminous prophetic men and the habit of the exokarstic soil, endowed with a small perforated Epsilon demon, obtaining its chemical weathering in certain limestone rocks, dolomite, and plaster. Diverting the attention of Etréstles that he glowed overwhelmed and charred. He was not stopped by the currents of splendor and the stormy pollutions of Cymopolea, in his hieratic invocation of the scalded typhoons of the drills of Hephaestus. This demon could be Tytillinus timorous in the defections of the deities of Mnemosyne relegating himself from his precepts, which according to this legend induced protervas inclinations of the clergy during the omitted religious services, he is the one that Saint John the Evangelist feared, that he would not give him the Asfalés Pérasma “license” to enter and be able to commission them in tasks that had been predicted for the Katapausis services after the quarterly. The Travertine silica, with residual sedimentary rocks, was partialized from the extrinsic biogenic that is deposited outside, the travertine predicted the monumental rocky karst of Patmos, for the secretions of calcium carbonate, among so much modest certainty taking you through the Invisible Eclectic Portal, and their Mundis Parallel that crashed with attached carbon molecules that, in disarray, manned them. The chasm was a cascade of weathering that became stalactites in the runes of the travertines, Thermo dynamizing the cavities that were conceived in the invisible caverns, under the parallel caves of the translucent travertine and in the sapwood of the troglodyte ghosts, materializing on the top wind tunnel.

Vernarth; I was with everyone working in the building of the Temple near the outside walls of the Cavern of San Juan, there was Etréstles Eurídice, Raeder, Petrobus, and Alikanto immersed in the Aulos who rang about exciting their ears with the royal denotes, which always had a special quality when he remained in Kalimnos. In good ink, knowing that the entire limen of proximity to the cavern was flooded by the enigmatic revulsive with the presence of Tytillinus, all are reordered towards the poles of tangible etherization with Psalms 120 to 132, thus they would give the antipode disposition with the Divine Mercy, to compensate the crown of the fifteen hours in the afternoon, thus disintegrating the agonizing parallel world that coincides with that of the fifteen hours in the morning. Somehow refraining from the northern paragon with the Tytillinus' shadowing, with the hooks of bewilderment and its scathing thoughts. With precisely this conspicuous shape; Vernarth will allow himself to be swallowed by the beast and reside in his abrasive stomach, making him believe that it will be consumed by him, so that he will soon fall close to it when vomited, thus confusing him, to make him believe that he was the same baby from his conceived womb. Vernarth manages to capture this exotic sinister image near the sinkhole, seeing him depressed in the Tytillinus Prisco; where all attentive listened to the textual vocabularies of the beatific, with the fruit of Karpos, for the benefit of a descendant gained by defeating the devil.

The European Sibilla carried the Gladius in his hand but exchanged it with the Xifos alternately for the death of innocents entrusted by Herod the Great, and for the evasion of the Holy family into Egypt. This confirms the liturgical grouping of the Easter Triduum; alluding to the passion of Christ, and perpetrating the pain of the Devout at his death, and triumphant at his resurrection. The sense of surrealism transports Saint John digging in all the layers and hordes of the Faith, his component of tribulation moved in the Egyptian and Greek cartography, mobilizing the triangular areas of the Palan, which moved in a geometric block reaching the edges of the hypotenuse gradient and the wind tunnel that lifted them, cornering the beast that visited them, pretending to be weak and imprecise. The man will carry the simile of his name, with hyperbole more or less in men who dare not to anticipate the conflicts of the gained space.

Vernarth, plots to continue insinuating with his labors, sees with optimism escape from this calamity, calls everyone to be close to the law ..., once they continued taking the steps towards the cavern. He emerges from convulsions on all edges of the cave, leaving everything dark and with vanities deterred at the end of the temporal Mundis Parallel. In the intermission, Saint John towards the response of Psalm 120 to 132, the fiery roar of the playful roar of the Tytillinus interferes, banishing the shaking of its **** to banish it from the Basilisk's egg, avoiding creating its heavy monarchy over them by prostrating them, as if to dissent. by being repentant or beheaded. Saint John the Evangelist will be an egregious demonologist, compiling thick volumes with the names of the attributions of each of the demons of infernal hierarchy. In this Venusian Aion symmetry, he moves them interconnecting with sublime periods where the intuition of the zafral of the human scale is lost, and of the archetype of Satanism or Satagenesis, with austere precision that includes Leviathan, ruler of the demons, to Ukobach, procurator of keeping the infernal flames alive. So that the manumission of slavery finally reigns according to one's own demonized moral individuality. The amount of an invocation of this type is always the soul of the unconscious individual, who will end up going to be squeezed into the underworld. The demons are invoked and they will invoke themselves in their dawn, to walk in their own darkness of the stagnant past, the mechanized present, and the multidimensional conscious future by means of exclusive enchantments that will be found here in the Mundi Parallel of the Invisible Eclectic Portal.
Codex XXIII - Mundis Parallel Portal Eclectic Invisible
Helen Nov 2014
in between the weeds
and the cactus
and the ever roaming
stinging nettle
and the occasional
blooming flowers
is where I settle
tucked away
in the corner
the only human face
weathering seasons
from first to last
covered in vine
pretending to be
the colour
just another comical error
to perpetrate the farce
Sydney Queen Apr 2015
I still sigh at the smell of citrus.
How could I not?
It was always you and that crate of oranges,
ambling towards the market
and me.
The flowers turn to you
instead of the sun when they pass.
I figure they don't know the difference.
I keep swearing to gods I stopped believing in.
Cyrus,
I've got oleander in my eyes
and my teeth
and my everything.
We didn't mean to water it so well,
But how could we not?
I keep seeing this phantasm
where I'm peeling oranges in the kitchen.
It smells like weathering wood and you.
The window is open
while you smile at me through it,
one hand placed gently on the windowsill.
My soul be ******.
You look like magic.
I watch you hand me an orange,
gently,
tenderly.
I don't remember taking that step forward.
I suppose it's always like that with you.
Cyrus,
they say that oranges are for good fortune.
How could they not?
I try to make sense but it usually doesn't work. Sorry about that.
Sombro Apr 2016
Should you find yourself alone
And in need of someone, for
The first time in your woven life
Call on me, my darling
Call on me.

Should you find yourself silent
And in need of someone
To tremble lips and speak
As if they could not think before you
Call on me, my dear
Call on me

Should you find yourself regretting
The long lost tomes of love letters
And the grin of someone more understandable
Him, him, your him,
Call on someone less, my love
Call on me.

Should you find yourself misunderstood,
Mistaken on your sun-netting mountain top
And you need someone who understands down here
Call on me, my only
Call on me

For I am here,
Feet rooted to the ground you walked upon
Hands hanging in the shape of your shoulders
From which you kissed me goodbye,
I am here, for you,
For anything left of you

If you should find yourself taken
By any other than me,
But wonder, what, what would I have been to you
Call on me, my endless happy mistake
Call on me

I'll never stop listening
I keep my ear out to the wind
And feel your flowered words
Brushing against my expectant glance

On a sunny, cloudy day.
eh.
Icarus M Jul 2013
Superimposing marks
On red, swollen lips
Bit and bled from chattering teeth
That tolls nervous as a cuckoo clock chirps.

A bumpy road with
Spidered cracks
Like a well dried jerky strip
Wrinkled, and tough.
Bit and chewed
With no bones underneath
And no guts to go forward.

Warning skies
Of red in the morning.
And thunderstorming nights
That flash with lighting so intense
You'd think an old-age photo party was commenced way up high.
And rain so furious
You'd think the clouds were tearing themselves to pieces.*
--------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------

As a cloud,
I think I should add
That we aren't all fluffy and white
Nor scary and dark.

Our seasons do not come easily
For we undergo much
To make it "rain."

And even more to keep it calm.

Thunder is not a weathering crash,
It is yelling from another room.
And the lightning flash,
rage,
That leads to liquid pain.

The hard pressed wind that tosses your hair
Are witheld screams
until tolerance level reaches maximum,
And snaps. Like that old willow's trunk,
Wrenched from the earth,
Because the sky is powerful
And we are only along for the ride.

But, there is sunshine that warms our tops
While the bottoms are in shadow,
wrought in darkness that writhe along uneven surfaces.
But, there is moonlight that makes us gleam,
Like silver was sewn into sides.
But she is not always there,
And as her light fades
So
Do
We.
A work in progress, but I wanted to share what I already have. I hope you enjoy. Any tips are welcomed. © copy right protected
Joseph John Dec 2013
The height of her heels
    Shrunk with every passing year.
Each "December", torn away from the calender
   Was a buzz saw, sometimes taking a sixteenth of an inch,
   And during winters that seemed particularly cold to her bones
   Nearly a quarter of an inch would be devoured by time's steady march.

At 18 her heels were confident, tall, strong,
   Proud pillars supporting the pantheon,
   Complete with Houdini-zippers and unnecessary birthstone buttons.
The Uncomfortable beds
   Of the comfort class.

At 26 her friends whispered,
   With martini breath,
   That they could swear that she had shrunk.
One suggested that she had simply adopted a new hairstyle.
After all, who has time to daily consort with the curling iron
   And still make the 6:47?
Good friends make for the worst critics.

At 41, on certain nights,
   Like when the Jove's had their annual tree-trimming party,
   Believable sources say she could still be be seen
   With 1/4 inch tree-trunks beneath her feet.
There were no buttons or zippers any longer,
   To announce her presence as made her across linoleum deserts
   Towards the desserts.
Her footprint was further softened
   By the Doctor-demanded cushion,
   Which eased the weathering toll of
   Each.
   Next.
   Step.
Everyone at the part paid words to her image:
   "Such soft skin."
   "Eyes that look truer blue after each blink."
   "Pilates or Yoga?  I have to know you secret."
But none of the husband saw her on their eyelids
    As they masturbated in the shower that night.

At 70 her wrinkled dignified carriers
   Were most at home in slippers.
She rarely removed them,
   'Cept when she let her toes soak like veteran driftwood
   In a well deserved baby warm tub.
For some reason the "News" insisted on covering award ceremonies
   And she would always feel a sharp
   Pain ping-pong between her heel and toenails
   As she watched the young actresses climb each step towards the podium.
She would still go out, now and then,
   But nobody noted the style or color that her feet were wrapped in.
   Why would they?
For the record:
   Plain, black, flats.
   Appropriately

She died at 82
   And although the casket was closed,
   It can be taken on good authority
   That this regal eagle of a woman
   Was buried barefoot.

I like to think that she is flexing her feet
   Somewhere eternal,
   Just to see how the sand feels
   Between her toes
Chris Mar 2021
The most luminous example of a fallen angel
An ignored history.. A need for attention..
We define The Humanity Problem globally..

Let me enter the mind of a killer
Let me learn from within the mind of a saint
I will calculate the sociology 
The norms killing our psychology 
With pad and pen as my everlasting friend..

I want to burn in hells 
I seek to bask in heavens

Show me the soul in my eyes
Weathering through a common storm..

People will find the real normal..
If they love themselves and help others..

It should be an oddity to erase normality 
And so it exists only as a common standard..
That is how I grew up..

What if we ended expectations?
What if we embraced change?
Compassion could be a global comeback..

There is a nature in duality..
Humans engraved into double-edged swords..

If we could create love and war..
We may be able to end our battles..
We could live with evidence and compassion..

Ending our need to be beautiful, better or rich

As an American.. I am built of guilt
I suffer..

I displayed kindness, love and compassion 
I valued evidence over assumption
Pointed out an economy of overconsumption

Only to be labeled as..

'Sheep'
'Idealistic'

So.. to my fellow kinsmen and women..

Open up a dictionary..

If I am a sheep..
We as a whole are not shephards..

Who do you look for to guide you?
Isn't America obviously lost?

We are defined as sheep by a globe called Earth

Currently? Like it or not.. They're right..

I am not powerful
I am weak

Despite the ego of America.. I am no sherpah..
I am no sheep..
I will never be a shephard..
I will only ever be me..
Think of you when at your happiest..
Revel in the lessons of how that was stolen..

It will be Hell..
I'll be blunt with that fact..

Want peace? Face it.
Face you. 
Deflate all of your ego.

We need to bring back who we were long ago..

We need to care and foster Hope..

Eradicate foolish hate..
Value intelligence and knowledge..

Divided we are destined to **** and die..

But.. United?
We could be a beacon of hope..

A beacon brighter than God, who we're under

An American Beauty..
That has shed her mistakes..

To let go..

Of her American Ego..
Red Robregado Jun 2022
In hollow valleys, off the distant peaks
Down in the dim woods, braiding canopies

In the quietude of slow-dancing leaves
Through the howling and raging of the winds

Across plateau of no growth or decline
along blind, chiseled cliff, a cul-de-sac

In the triumphant reach of high summit
Between the rocky canyons of defeat

Grace at every gaze despite long travails,
dazed in wonder, never cease to amaze

In the bone-parched deserts, devoid of life
Out of flowing streams, rivers without strife

At the depth where lights dwindle to nothing
On familiar shore radiant weathering

In jubilant rejoicing when love wins
Even through the painful cuts as it stings

At the plain of anxious waiting and doubt,  
In tiresome striving to glorious thriving

As it always has, Mercy will carry
Crushed, it wont let me be; though tears may tarry
Gadus Sep 2014
Vail tied to a weathering mask
with a child in tow
who grows swollen

And swells like his mother
from which he reluctantly
reared his head

In what was called The Cadaver Twist
A ******* accident, no less

No virtue in a conscience yet to breech
A lesson likely learned early
If only ...

Paternal instinct as the peripheral
responds autonomously to the bottle
with intervals of grease pouring
down the gullet

The rain decimates in torrential strife
Laying in bog known as
What Once Was
Waiting4TheStop Jun 2015
This one's for she who wears the glow in the dark specs.
The one nobody disrespects!

The one who always has the biggest smile on her face.
The one who constantly conducts herself with impeccable grace.

The one who isn't a afraid  to be different, to stand out and defy the norms.
The one who's light still shines, so bright, even after weathering the harshest of storms.

The one who sees nothing but goodness inside.
The one who makes me feel as if I I am airborne, I can simply spread my wings out and glide.
I have been afforded the greatest honour by her, she considers me her sibling, that alone gives me the biggest sense of pride.

Some say: "Money buys you happiness."
I will not argue, that could be true.
But couldn't the same be said about love too?
(C) 2015
Heath Leonard Aug 2013
Gazes fall to flowers in bloom,
they drift in wind, perform for all eyes,
happy to please without words.
Magnificent are the colors seen,
dancing across lines of sight,
confident in their shimmering beauty.
As time goes by, so does life,
weathering storms, horrid drought,
till all that's left are shredded weeds.
Delicate petals on a center death bed,
no winds to sway, no colors to flare,
unable to draw a single gasp.
Light blue fades to weary grey,
shriveled stem reaching for someone, anyone,
before finally giving up.
Forget-me-nots are quite ironic,
for everyone forgets petals when they fall;
They always do.

— The End —