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Monthly Archives: March 2016

A Memory Of Sun

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I do not see the sun today,
as the sky is rich with clouds;
no shapes or forms abide,
but as a blanket for the horizon.

I recognize this daylight
as but a mere memory of the sun;
it is a mist of white and grey,
where stars have no room to shine.

And tho’ not a sunlit day,
the birds still sing gaily, undaunted;
the sky is silent, in waiting,
and the air is still sweet with Spring.

I can but warm my bare feet,
still with the comfort of living earth;
the warmth of what had been
of what was yesterday, still remains.

I am not dissuaded by the dim,
knowing the sun will return tomorrow;
but, I pray for the moon tonight,
that it will not be but a memory, as well.

 
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Posted by on March 29, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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To Her Disquieting End

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And how like a summer rain
does her fragile heart break,
slowly and with torn precision,
it falls in shards upon her soul;
where no more does she wonder,
and no more is she in weeping,
for tears have left her long ago;
her doldrum has turned to sorrow,
borne by her needless indemnity,
fragile words she left in his lap,
the neglect of vain wanton sigh;
he had no use for her tenderness,
and she had been broken too long;
still in vague, but wanton memory,
she cries in anger, without a sound,
tho’ her sorrow now has no outlet;
in the failing of her tender grasp,
she reaches too far to find sleep,
and in the darkness of her mind,
she finds nothing but an ending,
where no trial had been before;
this silence becomes her solace,
deep in the quietus of her mind,
where words cannot be spoken,
only the sound of her breathing
is left in vestiges to remind her;
and in her most painful moment,
her mind wails with its discontent,
and with a final reach of her breath,
she falls silent, painless, evermore.

 
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Posted by on March 29, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Let It Be Rain

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Let it be rain.
Let the clouds cry.
Let air be undone,
as sun loses sky.

Let children laugh,
while they are young.
Let rain be e’er sweet,
falling on my tongue.

Let mountains rise,
and rivers run.
Let rain lash at me,
and leave me undone.

Let night ‘ere fall,
and day be drear.
Let rain be the cloak
which I hold so dear.

Let the tides cease,
the moon is gone.
Let rain tremble me,
as I walk alone.

 
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Posted by on March 28, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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A Reason For Surrender

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And with that final, unyielding kiss,
your tender lips were then unmade,
as my mouth was then without breath;
and the defilement of once virgin flesh
had become the reason why we stayed.

And as we played the heated moment,
your eyes, once vibrant with a flame,
had faded then, as if lost in some mist;
closing your eyes to mine as we kissed,
your hunger could only mouth my name.

Was it perhaps vanity to hold you close,
so firmly in my grasp, you seemed in fear,
so wild was I with need, it made you cry;
a tremor of your lips begat a nervous sigh,
yet I could not release, nor stay too near.

E’en then, we surrendered to abandon,
and time was lost to breathless disarray,
I dare not recall the hour of your depart;
you gave to me of your flesh and heart,
no more could I watch you walk away.

 
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Posted by on March 27, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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With Soft, Or With Stain

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Shall I sing but softly of your beauty,
and write verses of how sweet the air;
or shall I rage fiercely upon your breast,
and with my most carnal fervor, submit,
that I, alone, may be laid to your flesh,
and be but privy to your countenance.

Shall I write your name on starlit skies,
where your infamy had made its mark;
or shall I grasp firmly your burning fire,
taking risk, perhaps, of searing my soul,
whilst holding on to your flaming trail,
perhaps only to die in a blaze of glory.

 
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Posted by on March 26, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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And When The Rains Came

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And when the rains came,
her solace found new course;
not unlike the art of breathing,
in repose, her quelled breath.

Sitting at her bedroom window,
she felt, faintly, splashes of rain,
tho’ vicarious as they were then,
upon the pane, as if kissing flesh.

The sky, in its darkened gloom,
seemed to know of her history;
as if with a need to comfort her,
it shed tears to wash her sorrow.

And when, in her empty room,
she became sated with the rain,
able to feel again, if only wet,
she arose to face her tomorrow.

 
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Posted by on March 23, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Speak Not Of Death, But Of Dying

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Speak not of this sorrow
when you speak of pain,
’tis not shedding of tears
that gives credence to rain.

Speak not of this moment
lost to misguided disdain,
these hours spent in dying
shall not e’ermore remain.

Speak not of this beauty
when you speak your part,
for you cannot understand
the measure of my heart.

Speak not of this death,
for dying yet has its art,
to each time, its own end,
to each life, its own depart.

 
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Posted by on March 21, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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