colour

Refracted light reveals itself,
in bright and brilliant dance,
upon the mirrored eye and mind;
molecular as chance.

Through vivid, deep imaginings,
in shrill and purpled call,
drowning waves of shimmered blue;
huddled greens do fall.

Scarlet screaming, raging reds,
yellowed wash revealed,
orange laughing at the edge;
pink in pouting seal.

Browns in sullen, surried roll,
grey in distant rise,
white complete and purely born;
black, where all's denied.

Creation's song and signature,
is colour in all forms,
the magic touch of sacred brush;
where beauty is true-born.


http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/25/potics-the-color-festival/#comment-61610

No more

Arms raised in face of love's expectant, failed hopes,
reaching for the bones of lost relationship, striving
to connect through clouds of deep misunderstanding;
confusion in a fog does tease at broken history; chokes.

Leaping through the thoughts and fears which huddle,  hide,
like dry leaves in a teacup, fate does seek to read,
once drowned in liquid calm devotion, now consumed;
on the air the whispers come of you, and fallen pride.

Dreams like splintered slate are strewn upon mind's roof,
and reason stumbles on through frozen, raging sleep,
nurturing roots of bitter weeds that logic's gutters hold;
grief's hollow stare is fixed, on vision's early harvest - truth.

Time rushes, drenching rains through all the years we shared,
floods deep the planet, where once we were complete,
those cities of belief now unusable, hidden in suffocated days;
damp dust creeps on eternal; memory's ageing wicker unprepared.

How slack became the tightly woven canes of all our hopes,
the twist and fold of where we once could safely, surely sit,
feathers  of certainty, dropped in silence, like a  dying  swan;
great bird of passion quiet at last and our tryst full revoked.

Two breaths once held together, in safe and soulful store,
alive like petals, crouching, cradled on some fragrant rose,
bells of future used as synchronistic tunes to sing us on;
now each gentle bosom beats alone - love gone, it is no more.


http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2014/03/24/we-wordle-11/#respond

Laurie: arms failed bones
Priti: clouds leaping fog
Annell: teacup broken history
Jules: calm devotion drowned
Laurie 2: air whispers you
Hannah: slate stumbles splintered
Nicole: roots sleep frozen
Emangster: gutters stare rushes
Amy: harvest unusable planet
Irene: dust wicker slack
Abby: fold swan Cities
De: petals breaths quiet
Debi: store time alive
Sara: tunes used bells
Marian: gentle bosom alone

Sting

The sting of warning love cannot be natural,
when time does blunt the plenty of the heart,
and in the quartet of our senses we do find,
that rival, rude addition,  pain imparts.

The course of caring cannot be in certainty,
nor held in place within the grind of time,
for grief can blunt response and any feeling;
the job of soul to mend our broken mind.

http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2014/03/23/wordle-153/

Hahndorf Autumn

Silvered green and grey cloaked smile,

Drooping leaves and chill held time,

Bird song crisp, and gentled call

Held in warmth … surrender all.

Frost touched earth embraces day,

Stretches limbs of darkened night,

Calls to being moments born

Whispers promise dressed as dawn.

Flowered secrets tease the wind

Caress with colour morning’s dream

And wait for winter’s icy breath

To lead the way to life in death.

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2014/03/19/prompt-205-your-neck-of-woods/

Fields of Pluto

Where did you go in those realms of mind,
those distant places where we, who loved
and knew you, and held you, cannot follow?
Where did you go that needed to be so far
from all you were and all we knew and all
that you had always been; familiar, sure? 
There is no answer, only the epic silence,
for there is no understanding when psyche
is called, pulled, dragged from the place of
the known, into the fields of Pluto, where
that which must die is put to the sword of
necessity and that which must live, is seeded
in drops of dark blood; brought to being
in damp, brooding clods of earth, where
cracks reveal the dark lights of Hades, in
waiting, for the certain earth to be torn
asunder, that you could and would be
dragged down, led through corridors of
possibility, stripped, separated, cut apart,
in that disconnecting way of Soul; hung
in pieces on the hooks of probability and
destiny, waiting for the time when demons
could become angels and you would be
slowly, carefully and surely - recalled.
As loss and grief dismember, and remember,
 in the process does bring from death a new,
abundant and restorative life and being.
So do love and hope sweep with tidy broom,
the dust and shreds of all that was into new
shape and form, weaving in eternal way again,
a shifting of the heart and mind once known,
reminding that energy can never be destroyed,
but only transformed, and nothing is ever lost.

universe of me

In cellular cast cavalcade,
creation brings to birth,
the pure eternal being,
unique in all its worth,
and in the mimicked moments
new universe is born,
you and me, and everything,
from heaven's skirts are torn.

Shadow -retriever

Soul does make a mirror,
reflecting back again,
image hid in darkness;
rug-lifters for the pain.

That which has been hidden,
must on the path be seen,
denied can be illuminated;
shadow-retriever dreams.

Cassandra-like they speak,
bard-surgeons wielding knife,
that psyche can be healed,
as wounds bring inner life.

Life-messengers enunciate,
what others would not hear,
that secrets are uncovered,
and hope can conquer fears.


http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/20/kennings-the-metaphor-of-skalds/#respond

Love and hate

How can love walk hand in hand with bitter hate
when each is so opposed and driven to be different,
to reach beyond the purpose that the other would have,
disappearing into worlds each would prevent?

And yet it does, where sweet sublime will mingle
with that which is so dark, so separating and so cruel,
with no connection in the way that love would have,
and no division in the way that hate  would pull.

Polarity is stretched across a great divide which calls,
and each must tiptoe into balance, finding centre,
so that relationship is real and not too much of either;
foolish are the ways of love and hate 'til mended.

Blues

Blues crept shyly into heart and mind to shadow skin,
revealing yet invisible that sorrow had now claimed,
a place to hide in every cell and shivering, dancing hair;
so was the mood encompassed and the moment blamed.

Eyes widened to allow the tears to gather skirts and fall,
that drench of grief which tipped upon the edge of flesh,
and so was waiting, ready then to tumble into sight;
crippled feeling laid in tender rest on memory's breast.


http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/18/poetics/#respond

Sanctuary

Knowing soul found sanctuary behind the carapace,
where spirit could then spiral and mind be vapour made,
that honeysuckle sweetness like rain eternal drums,
and in the year becoming, the eggshells crack as one.

Roots of hope are searching deep as demons hover high,
and spin on teasing wings of fear as chrysalis does sigh,
and waits to birth eternally, like sea-foam soaring forth;
the witches suck life's hookah, that iridescent torch.

Angels hover, sifting truth in robes of vibrant blue,
their gowns cathedral curvature, votives offered true,
in filament of meaning, as stoic purpose looms,
soul  does now find fortune, breaking from cocoon.

Inky hell will nurture long, conceiving in dark light,
nightmares of pure tangles, the bloody stripes of fright,
like brightly painted geisha, in kimono pursing lips,
so is the bloom of passion, in Self so surely lit.

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2014/03/17/we-wordle-10/#respond


 sanctuary, soul, knowing
  spiral, vapor, carapace
  honeysuckle, rain, year
  eggshells, drums, demons
  roots, chrysalis, wings
  seafoam, hookah, witches
  angels, blue, truth
: curvature, cathedral, votives
: filament, cocoon, stoic
  fortune, inky, nurture
  nightmares, kimono, geisha
  tangles, bloom, stripes

Felt

To touch upon what is not seen,
to feel and sense and smell,
so do we enter into life;
in ways the eyes can't tell.

To lose the image clearly drawn,
to fathom endless mind,
so can we know the inner depths;
so do we truth then find.

That pull to places not revealed,
that call to what's unknown,
so we surrender and release;
so is the heart then shown.

That siren song of sensing,
that music of the spheres,
silken touch, scented sound;
so does the soul revere.

http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/13/meetingthebar-the-blind-poet/#respond

Image

I hold the image cast through countless seeded years
of your familiar self; flesh writ in solid, sensing bone,
as heart then speaks through instrument of mind
and wails like weeping sirens, in ancient, grieving tone.

Ephemeral the vision dances in dark halls of thought,
wraith-like, fading, moving into view and then is gone,
as if to tease at edges  glued in hope to flimsy floors;
so is memory, by the years, ground down and worn.

Holding on to what the days have drawn so deep within,
clinging to the love which rests in wait and never dies,
hoping beyond knowing that what was will live again;
so does the vision weave through time's eternal ties.

Storm

Grey clouds gather, rippled,
fringed across the hem of sky,
ruched in certain order, stitched
in darkening threads,
so they burst ephemeral,
crouched against light’s death;
billowed, skirting, ruffled,
searching for a place to die.

Red chair

As sentinel of crimson pain,
it offers velvet arms,
to time's destructive callings;
to life's eternal claims.
Upon a rotted floor of hurt,
within love's peeling walls,
you wait in mouldy sanctuary;
until I will return.
But shadowed light is falling
and night has called me home;
the door forever open
to dreams and ghostly forms.
The colour of our passion,
has held in shining dyes,
to honour what we shared
in bright, lost, helpless lies.


http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/11/poetics-its-a-micromacro-world/#respond

Dawn solace

Heart holds court, commands the dance,

directs the music, that does play, 

in symphonies of soulfullness, enticing every chance,

that mind will offer up to day.

As dawn  slow stirs on night's deep bed,

so are the skirts full flounced, 

in ruffled possibilities, where reason can be led,

and clarity emerges as daylight is announced. 

So does light bring solace yet again,

in ways dispelling demons large and small,

that sanity can sing in bright refrain,

and morning trills in deep, familiar call.

The monsters of the night are pushed aside,

image dilutes in new-born glare,

and senses are restored by sun's full tide,

so is the moment offered then to share.

Vanquished

Tears are washing, sloughing memory, drawing blinds on swollen eyes,

cleansing the defective, rubbing omen stains through hours that ring

hollow in the emptied shell, that waste of love which life was steering;

the bitter fruit is silent, riddled with soft rot as heart's decay now lies.

Mind believed that soul stood by and spirit-filled they would be drawn,

no logic to it, no sure reason to defend when suddenly fear called,

how silly was that favourite word, so fondly said, so often - Sewanee;

pain like shell in ancient sandstone, flaked as useless,  crumbling walls.

The tree of life had grown, and gathered solid, perfect rings to hold

his image, but now, no more than mirage and nothing left but muted scent,

and the notch, he had carved, inside her heart which trust did once applaud;

how sodden all the words once said, how muddled and how cold.

Like touts, deceptive dreams did crowd around her natural, open self,

infatuation's eyes bright as shining lapiz lazuli, to tell a story captivating,

which then did transplant into waiting arms, a fantasy of what could be;

so were the stories of their love made library, arrayed upon the shelf.

So casually he crept into her world, as someone set upon such fruitful scams,

which clarity, if found would just deny, demanding shadows, darkest dusk  today,

in movements turtle slow, and hardly seen, when what felt like an age had barely been;

so is it that hope can ham it up, sustains, and even as it does in time, so damns.

Regret then wrapped, in woollen shawl around her shouldered, chilling night,

rough, prickling, rubbing raw against the tender palms which had been bared,

and sorrow flowing slowly, sweet and tannin-filled, like steaming tea to please;

so was her self then vanquished, broken,  that soul might one day soon be ripe.

Irene (day one):  washing, blinds, swollen

Elizabeth (old journal, new eyes):  defective, omen, ring

Elizabeth (second journal poem):  shell, waste, steering

Irene (day two):  fruit, riddled, spirit-filled

Elizabeth (journal poem three):  suddenly, fear, logic

Barbara:  sandstone, silly, Sewanee

Irene (day three):  mirage, flaked, scent

Irene (day four):  rings, notch, inside

Roslyn:  muddled, applause, sodden

Elizabeth (fourth journal poem):  touts, natural, self

Nicole:  lapis lazuli, transplant, story

Irene (day five):  ham, library, dreams

Jules (The Pieces):  casually, scams, heart

Jules (The Composite):  dusk, clarity, today

Elizabeth (final journal poem):  turtle, age, sustains

Marian:  woolen, palms, please

Hannah:  ripe, flowing, tea

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2014/03/10/we-wordle-9-a-blockbuster/#respond