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Jesse stillwater Apr 2018
Just disappearing
isn't possible
when it takes
so long for
a rock wall
to erode away

  The wind
is the only one
that sees you,
and its silence
grinds down
from the inside out
a mountain
too high to climb

  It's hard to forget
swelling words
spoken under the breath
of the voice of silence,
when your hands
are lined with all
that they ever have;

still bearing
every latent piece
that breaks off
tryin' to keep
from the sight
of another
tempest storm gale
moving worlds

  So I'm going
way outside
the edge of the inside;
crossing over
way outside the lines
covered by gathered
windblown life fractals
  Though I may not
get back in again,
way outside the lines,
or I might not
even want to ...
you can’t go back
the same way
you came,
everything changes
while you're gone
even if you DO notice

  Gravity pulls
with the strength
of a turning tide:
you can try
and fight it,
but you can't stop
its running downhill
looking behind
your eyes, trying
to take you back
the same way you
went way outside
  the lines ...

  04 April 2018
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
Verse 1

Why do I have this haunted feeling?
Something is moving in the shadows.
Working secretly tides flow,
as night steals past the day.
A voice is singing to silence,
a thousand petals falling windblown,
the still earth will lie strange, unknown,
a tolling bell brings on the night.

In the fullness of a falling tear,
In the garden of remembered time,
In the silence sung before the song,
Life will find you there.

Verse 2

What moves a fallen leaf to swirling?
Couples are speaking words of love songs.
In the hour of the dawn's glow
a rose will scent the night.
Moonbeams will stir the waving waters,
while feathered wings caress the breezes,
and your heart sings to pierce the dark,
a falling star will shed it’s light...

In the fullness of a falling tear,
In the garden of remembered time,
In the silence sung before the song,
Life will find you there.

With the turning of the heaven's sky,
With the dancing of the seasons by,
With the yielding of your lover's sigh,
Life will find you there,
Life will find you there

When the darkness spreads from near to far,
In the cascade of a falling star
In the motion of a bird in flight
In the sweetness of your lovers light
With the beating of your yearning heart...

Copyright © 2007 Gary Brocks

This is a love poem to life, after almost losing mine.
While American in sensibility, this poem is an homage to Portuguese Fado music.
It has been has set to music by Jesse Elder: THE GARDEN OF TIME, Lyrics GARY BROCKS, Music JESSE ELDER
An unmixed studio recording (Gary Brocks, Vocals; Jesse Elder, Piano) is available by contacting Gary Brocks.
RCraig David May 2018
You can remember more than the day
the hour, the second, right down to the blink
When you were on the brink
that moment you decide to ignore your basic instinct, your gut.
Your soul starts to sink.
You stop to think...
know you’re no longer in sync with what your soul needs,
your heart feels,
your mind thinks.
Your lack of love for yourself allows you to put all your dreams goals and ideals on the shelf.
There are no reasons or logic or causes to be known.
There is no legacy or growth or seeds to be sown or thrown,
and so the seceding, succeeding that sits on “Her” throne shall be well known.
Your last flickering candle exposed to the cold dark windblown unknown as you walk alone in the black.
Why did you make this decision alone...because you always were the minute you abandoned your own.
But somehow this nonsensical, unremarkable **** slipped in equipped, betwixt too simple beseeching of your heart.
Cap Oct 2017
I can’t save the girl who chases the
windblown white dust on the road
just to feel alive
Who chases smoke in the distance
to blur her anxieties

I can’t save the girl who lays in the street
Because she likes the rush of the cars as they go over her
But that rush she yearns for,
gets her run over again and again and again

I can’t keep being the white dashes on the street
Trying to keep her in line
Trying to keep her safe
My paint is fading
My heart is cracked
Striking against the contrast of the blacktop
as a final plea
to tell her to stand up and chase the stars
instead of the smoke
and the dashes instead of the dust
Because somewhere down this old cracking road
is the destination she’s been waiting for
all her life.
I wasn't down in the bottom
Nor was I up somewhere High
I feel no need to race the wind
Or spit into the eye

I have no driving hunger
Nor am I starving for results
I'm no more moved by accolades
Than I am by any vile insults

l could leave right this moment
With no need to even look back
No more purpose or Direction
than a windblown empty paper sack

If I had any emotional connection to anything anywhere or at any time
The line which held that feeble pull
Has now released me from all ties that bind

The shadow that I have often followed
Or was aware of  in my wake
Doesn't seem to be as intrinsically connected
As the power wane's and lights dim accentuating every ache

So that in turn what might once concern
And set on edge some Keen insight
To push the ink through an all consuming link
Driving that need to succeed by saying it just right

Has just become some Tangled mess
Endless threads and those ancient dreads
For if nothing changes the course or flow
Then that sack in directionalless  flight is right in caring not why or when how or where it heads

Who cares if all those words ended up simply scattered
And you are a hollowed-out core nothing more
Defeated and depleted by the knowledge that nothing mattered
If words are heard and only those understood the others we ignore

You know what I mean
understand where I'm coming
And you say wow man I can relate
Then tell me my friend
before I end
what's the difference in a morsel
and a crumb

If they all taste the same then they are mundane
Al Drood Jul 7
Upon the headland is my place
where seabirds wheel and turn apace,
a-screeching windblown tales to me
of distant lands and distant seas,
of sparkling beaches, gleaming quartz,
of strangers and of foreign ports,
of shark and serpent, kraken, whale,
of ships that foundered in the gale,
of sunken vessels, bones picked clean,
of hagfish writhing and obscene,
of ocean currents, plankton’s bloom,
of those that spawn beneath the moon,
of coral reef and rainbow hue,
of lava and volcanic flue,
of devastating waves and tides,
of those who lived and those who died,
Yet little does this mean to me
as I stare silent out to sea,
where seabirds wheel and turn apace,
upon the headland is my place.
Caroline Jul 10
I won’t chisel a spirit to make
It resemble some other Formation,
Like the sculptors of the faces On the rocks.
I love the mountains more
When their jagged edges and Sun-kissed outcrops
Create patterns all their own;
Granite spires, volcanically Windblown,
Unabashedly wild,
No artist’s signature
Laying claim to the beautiful Potential of the stone;
Only the forces of the
Determine our growth.
Like Crazy Horse,
I want to be brave,
Paint streaks of lightning on
My face;
Look to the mountains and Scream,
I love you
Just like that,
Inspired by the Black Hills.

— The End —