Seeing A Thought

“I realize there’s something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they’re experts at letting things go.” ― Jeffrey McDaniel

harryvarelis

Seeing a thought, though it long past
How your touch and kiss, both would last
The wind in the trees, of my looking mind
Washed the slate clean, with the rain of time
Flitting rare bird, that affection of yours
I crawl through, the closing doors
Seeing a thought, though I longed it so
Touching the dreams, I let you go.

01292012

 

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Dreamweaver – Nightmares of Abuse

“My father was one of those men who sit in a room and you can feel it: the simmer, the sense of some unpredictable force that might, at any moment, break loose, and do something terrible.
[Burnside, p. 27]”
― John Burnside, A Lie About My Father: A Memoir 

The following is an excerpt from the hopeforhealing.org.,  poetry by survivors of sexual or domestic violence.

 

aneasylife4u

Come, beckons the night,

Let us dance together, and chase the dream weaver
I am not laughing at you
It is only the laughter of the past
Rushing through your brain

 

I am harmless, why do you resist me so?
Pearls of wisdom are here within my walls
And peace offerings as well
Yet you quake at the sight of me
My power has not alluded you

 

Need I remind you?
You cannot resist me forever!
I am that necessary evil
Which recreates evil past
My nourishment lies in your screams
So, foolish one, scream on!

 

No one is listening, no one hears
Wake them; tell them of your sad tales
I will recapture them before your voice silences
But they will not find your persecutor
And will think you mad

 

Reach for the sun, it is hours ’til its’ dawn
As I am your punisher, it is your reward
However, for now I am your companion
Let us dance together, and chase the dreamweaver
Come, I beckon you

011912

Snuff of Innocence

“… you don’t have to wait for someone to treat you bad repeatedly. All it takes is once, and if they get away with it that once, if they know they can treat you like that, then it sets the pattern for the future.” – Jane Green, Bookends

ardentembrace

With the subtly of snakes, he creeps through the grass

Lust on his mind, his tongue tasting the innocence

Peeling the soul away leaving his dying life behind

Pushing his severity on one left alone

Fear is the knife held to a young neck

Forcing a change, cracking the tender mind

Raising to her feet, looking through the shock

A numbness begins, heaven’s after thought to this evil

Vigilance now a trance to see the blurred face of the enemy

Shadows take shape, forever they will chase

Hiding, pulling the dark around like a quilt

This soul will do more than agonize over dead matters

Lay down now you thirsty demon

Shaking herself the young woman becomes a nightmare

Also published in Broowaha 

01162012

Poetry Is For The Dead – Words beyond an epitaph

“Let me tell you how the story ends, where the good guys die and the bad guys win. It doesn’t matter how many friend you make, but the graffiti they write on your grave.”
  – Gerard Way

lblairphotography

Poetry is for the dead.

Mocking, that’s what he said.

As life pours from my pen,

His word echoes, poetry is for the dead.

Life breathed through the written instead

He repeated, poetry is for the dead.

New beginnings from what is read

Poetry is more than for the dead

11262011

Old Tubal Cain – We will not forget the sword

“and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more” 

– Isaiah 2:3-4

The following is a post from lucifelle. It is an excellent poem both in form and message. My favorite line, “we’ll not forget the sword”. Always fight for what you believe in. Peace. 

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when the earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright
The strokes of his anvil rung ;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron growing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang, ” Hurrah for my handiwork !
Hurrah for the spear and the sword !

Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord ! “
But a sudden change came o’er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun ;
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done.
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind ;
That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said, “Alas ! that I ever made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man! “
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands ;
And sang, “Hurrah for Tubal Cain !
Our stanch good friend is he ;
And for the ploughshare and the plough,
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We’ll not forget the sword.”