Fear

Fear does roam in circle,
granite hard in veins,
calls the ghost of reason,
names the nightmares

reared, on the weight
of sorrows, howl of
deepest grief, packs
the flesh of madness

wrapped in sore relief.
Holding to the table,
empty dreams of hope,
reason drinks in silence,

draughts of time remote.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/11/24/poetry-as-a-vehicle-to-transport-emotions/

Missing you

There is a hole in the world where you once were,

a gap of such dimensions it cannot ever be missed,

and yawns in cavernous gaping, like some shocking

smile, smashed open, holding to eternal edges, where

 

my heart hovers by the threatening boundaries of

the abyss, and my mind huddles to one side, every

now and again, peeping into that darkness, as if in

an unexpected moment, I could see you there again;

 

as if I could find your shape deep inside that chasm,

and then, pull it back into place, haul it from the lair,

where it had been hiding, lost to sight, disappeared

into that bunker of time, that grotto of grief which had

 

claimed it, and broken the world I had known asunder,

wrought that fathomless depth with its wounded mouth,

destined to remain open, silent, mocking, keening in

a voice which echoed through memory, and which spoke

 

always of what once was and might never be again,

now that you were lost on the other side of that hole

in the world I once knew, where only your desire could

see you clamber back through, and close it up again.

Hands

So soft, those hands, held
velvet through lack of use,
crippled, racked with pain,
wrinkled in sad sighing,

held loosely to stop the
hurting, incapable of taking
hold, or hanging on, helpless
as they have made you, or

perhaps as you needed to be,
with a disease to which you
could only surrender, against
which there was no resistance,

no attempt to take a grip, or
to handle it in constructive
ways, but then, 'taking a grip'
you were sure, was what led

to madness, to those places
where you had been for so
long, that they held you in
their grip, even once you had

been released; and so, you sat,
hands folded loosely in surrendered
lap, languishing always,
in sullen, rheumatic depths.

http://margoroby.com/2015/11/10/tuesday-tryouts-the-modes/#comments

Fear

When fear sucks in hope,
holds its breath and refuses
release, and the world seems
to shrink into itself, denying

possibility, promising pain
and gritting brittle teeth,
in the face of optimism;
then do I wait for angels

to whisper thoughts of
comfort, which can prod
open lips of despair;
allowing bright exhale.

Leaving

The jacarandas are in flower
as the blossoms fall purple,
small deaths, sighing at
the side of open suitcases,

coming to rest in the dust of
gathering memories, waiting
to be packed along with the
myriad possessions; dregs

of life and tree, scattered in
that song of inevitable ending,
where what was, can be no
more and what is, calls, in

soulful whisper, reminding
all is impermanent, nothing
lasts, or can endure, beyond
its allotted time and for the

expatriate, there will always
be a moment to go home, just
as the tree sheds its beauty,
making way for something

new, and for that which is
destined to come after -
fated to the turn of the wheel
of life, the eternal cycle,

slowly spinning in silence,
unseen, revolutions of days
and minutes, dropping into
the past, as the now rises

in gentle roll, to the top of
consciousness, holding for
a brief reality, impressed
as template of our being;

so we begin and move to
our created end, which
has always been written
even if we did not know it.

Headland

Headland huddled holding staggered ground,
house held fragile against the misted sea,
in distant gazing, silenced windows;
nothing but the sigh of breathing waves is found.

As if dropped at once into final, steady place,
with each rock gathered from the falling cliff,
and pressed tightly into possibility and hope;
so does this small refuge sit with grace.

High above the suck and shrug of salty ocean,
tossing songs of crusting, ancient words,
cossetted by golden, keening bush and leaf;
trailing dusty hands with eloquent emotion.

Horizon hurls itself into its brutal destiny,
far away from what is here and now,
calling softly on the scuds of foaming light;
so my home sits quiet, ever waiting.

http://margoroby.com/2015/09/29/poem-tryouts-this-is-where-i-want-to-be/

There is no death

There is no death,
just emerging
from material form,
with a shake of damp,
fresh wings of
remembering, and
a smile for the familiar,
the known and what
has always been, and
was, even in the time
of earthly forgetting,
held within the
cocoon of incarnation,
protected by the shell
of Self which caressed
for that brief time,
your eternal Soul.

Pathetic

Pathetic was demeanour,
pitiful to see,
holding onto victimhood,
refusing to be me.

Lamentable the moaning,
inadequate the mind,
wretched was my state;
reason left behind.

Plaintive were my cries,
feeble was my heart,
paltry was all comfort;
hope was torn apart.

Harrowing the moments,
poignant and forlorn,
grieving in my sorrow;
dreams forever yawn.

Righteous was my feeling,
moral and profound,
principled my keening;
ethical my ground.

Rightful were my cries,
allowable my pain,
acceptable my raging;
noble was my gain.

Until the angels cautioned,
sedate in their appeals,
gentle, calm and soothing;
tranquil could I feel.

And in that place of reason,
where dignity did live,
I could summon memory,
remember how to give.

Shaking off the mantle,
of my victimhood,
grace did settle quietly;
forgive you, I then could.

 

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

Flee

Flee the valley of your dreams,
free yourself and fly,
dash into the realms of real
where hope does not deny.

Let not demons trick you,
evict you from your place,
taint the scent of wonder,
try to dissolve grace.

When the days subside,
and time's no more a threat,
in the nick of time you rise;
soar on heaven's breath.


https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2015/09/19/wordle-217/#comment-4922

Solace

Curious cup filled silently,
as if to find a way,
of understanding sorrow;
black cat of inner play.

Solace sipped so slowly,
drank the wine of grief,
stomach surely soured;
Love would find no peace.









http://dversepoets.com/2015/08/27/10746/#comment-99654

Menacing

Menacing the universe,
until we understand,
see rampant love around us;
unravel in God's plan.


http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2015/08/3ww-week-no-442.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+ThreeWordWednesday+%28Three+Word+Wednesday.%29

Mortar

Mortar made invisible,
truth which lay behind,
hid the dusty fretting;
camouflaged and lied.

Bricks of years beholden,
holding on as yet,
driven to impermanence;
damp and frayed regrets.

When the mask is broken,
so then is revealed,
damp and rotting structure;
now no longer sealed.

Broken paste of memory,
bares the soul at last,
structure now is breathing;
substance so long cast.





http://margoroby.com/2015/08/25/poem-tryouts-bricks-and-mortar/

Chiselled

I chiselled at your image,
revealed the puzzle clear,
made luminous your heart,
left nothing else to fear.


Dumb were left the angels,
superior and wise,
lucid was my loving;
hollow were your smiles.


Foreign were the moments,
feckless were your aims;
drank the wine of sorrow,
saw the darkening stain.


There would be no winner,
once the die was cast,
drunk on sour misery;
mourn our time now past.








https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

Feast

Feast of life does generate,
the way to study time, and
then to laugh and find escape,
to sack the days not born.

The veins of soul lie empty,
the Self no more than ghost,
torn the days of memory;
heart's engine, broke and lost.

So do the years then gather,
rejoice in all that's been,
call upon fate's angels,
to close the gaps between.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2015/08/16/wordle-212/


 

Soul

What is this shadow of the mind?
Echo - Soul.
So there is form and substance?
Echo - No and Yes.
In dual form Soul does reside.
Echo - And more than that.
For Soul can be all things and none?
Echo - Yes.
As searching through to inner Self.
Echo - where all is one.
Shadow cast from reflected Sun.
Echo - where all is one.


Version Two.

What is this shadow of the mind?
Echo - Soul defined.

So there is form and substance?
Echo - No and Yes.

In dual form Soul does reside.
Echo - and more besides.

A searching through to inner Self.
Echo- with all revealed.

Shadow cast from reflected Sun.
Echo - where all is one.






http://dversepoets.com/2015/08/13/meeting-the-bar-echo-verse/#comment-98967

Thoughts

Thoughts were enigmatic,

gruesome to behold,

nothing to interpret;

so they did unfold.

Mind became impatient,

fears did irritate,

inflamed with expectation,

nothing then could sate.

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

Thread

Sin did settle soulfully,
plaster on my mind,
chill of truth so finally;
cry of life defined.

Thoughts did so recede,
no way to know again,
death's rattle as the sigh;
love could not defend.

Scry, the angels whisper,
beat the drum of truth,
stitch the thread of Self;
web of time is loose.

Creek of sorrow narrows,
winding through the years,
kissing banks of memory;
washing loose my tears.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

Beach

It was the first and last holiday
of childhood, the only time we
ever went away, and precious
because of its exceptionality,

where the riveting glaring
gaze of the white-sand beach,
remained in memory always,
and the sky burst shocking

blue, as if it held Summer to
account, and dared the days to
languish in shadow, when they
could not, and would not be

released from the brilliant grip
of sunshine, day after day after
day, where the tease of hot sand
through drying toes and the salt

captured kiss of the sea refused
to leave clothes, or lips or skin,
not even when we ate the fresh
cooked fish, caught by rod at

the edge of the beach, each day
as if the King George Whiting
waited for the hook, knowing
this was the gift they offered

in a Summer that would never
be known again, at least for
some, and therefore, would
be held in perfect prism.

Sunrise

In wash of deep imagining,
the sun is brought to birth,
revealed in brilliant being;
succour of this earth.

Unity

Unity curls beckoning finger,
summoning psyche to attend,
requiring that Self and Soul
be joined, as one, and where

the many can be made as
one, united in that universe,
of human nature, that sure
reflection of consciousness

made manifest in the unique
and the particular, of many
worlds joined in circling
certainty, turning star-like

around and around in the
galaxy of eternal creation,
where the wonder and the
beauty of you and me is

drawn into meaningful
and purposeful, expression
of particularity and the
personal; from the source.

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2015/07/poets-united-midweek-motif-unity.html

Metallic

Metallic was the moment,
resembling nothing known,
that prison of uncertainty;
when you at last were gone.

Optimal the circumstance,
as I stood all alone,
future spreading teasingly;
your voice a distant tone.

Polished were excuses,
refined and readied now,
presented to the world,
but none defined the how.

In striking notes of memory,
in shining timbre sounded.
the best that I could hope for,
as something new was founded.

Optimal the circumstance,
polished were excuses,
metallic was the moment;
the path to unknown truths.

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/





 

hiraeth

Source of soul and senses,
place of mind and heart,
so the land dispenses,
no matter if apart.

Smell of acrid eucalypt,
smoke of burning bush,
liquid crystal carolling,
magpies on the roof.

Cerulean the shining sky,
light bursts in a drench,
sunshine screams intensely;
so the day  is spread.

Creep of morning calmness,
drift of evening sighs,
so the earth stays breathing;
ancient, worn and wise.

   

hiraeth

Hiraeth is a longing for one's homeland, but it's not mere homesickness. It's an expression of the bond one feels with one's home country when one is away from it.

My philosophy of being

As a fundamental nature,
sourced in guiding principles,
my philosophy of being,
relies on  varied rules.

They may remain unknown,
at work in hidden depths,
or they may be conscious,
each powerful no less.

It's in the deeper knowing,
that I define my truths,
call life a great experiment,
with certainty removed.

Impute the best of motives,
and recognise each Soul,
know that we all are seeking,
to answer inner calls.

Find meaning in the moment,
and purpose in each day,
embrace whatever comes;
for me this makes my way.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/07/16/talk-on-a-cereal-box-a-smile-on-a-dog/#comment-97955

 

Labyrinth

Werewolf keenly watching,
as dolls were branded blind,
with resurrection pending;
heartbreak was sublime.

Scorpion in scatterings,
witches with their spells,
hunted through eternity;
ear no sound could quell.

Alone the demon hunted,
through corridors of mind,
ball of hope sent spinning;
no outcome was defined.

In halls of deep imagining,
psyche trailed a thread,
beckoned soul to follow;
grief's labyrinth now left.

 https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/
 

DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

The cross of caring can be light,
when order holds the day,
and yet be crushing, in the night,
of bitterness and rage.

We care and that means loving,
we hold, we reach, connect,
and so are bound eternally;
until someone rejects.

In times of cruel abandonment,
for reasons hardly known,
it's love which crucifies us,
with feelings brutal nails.

The curse within a precious gift,
means hurt does hold the hand,
of joy in all relationships;
and both together stand.

Remembering in deepest pain,
that just a step away,
waits reconciliation's glue;
the broken, then re-made. 

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2015/07/poets-united-midweek-motif-night.html

Whole

Aloof the senses sundering,
cool, distant, uninvolved,
distaste for feelings totally;
the heart must be absolved.

Temporary time becomes,
without you in my life,
all is doomed impermanent;
hours of bitter strife.

'Whole,' the angels whisper,
'is what you become,
when the path is fully walked;
when these days are done.'

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

 

Breath

That breath, so brief, intake
of love, shadowed by grief,
at something lost, now gone;
mind is drawn to inner wake.

Words

Sometimes the words just stop,
as if sulking in hidden corners,
resenting where they have been
taken, pouting in that soft-lipped

way they have, where the brutal
capacity is denied, and their
power is contained, because it
must be, even though the mind

does not understand why they
have retreated into that darkness
of isolation and surrender, as if
they have been chastised just

once too often, and now refuse
to make their presence known,
to allow themselves to be used,
as if to punish for what has been

done, unless, of course, it is a
reminder that sometimes it is
in silence that we find ourselves
and know truths beyond words.

Stories

Stories repeated through generations,
each handing on to the next, some truth,
all gathered in memory of mind and cell;
bequeathing the old to new youth.

Time sifted through those many tales,
tinkering with plot and characters,
reworking ancient facts as mythology;
released in each birth as factors.

And now, repeating, as I do such accounts,
there is a sense of entering into that past,
embarking on a journey of remembering;
handing on each story as they have asked.

NB: not sure I have this right but tried all the same.

II.

In that instant of a drowning madeleine,
transported through the seas of memory
and feeling,  he was adrift on oceans of
smell and taste, sweet, aromatic, sensory -

I looked up from the book, it was time
for coffee and a madeleine from the freezer.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/25/meeting-the-bar-with-time-travel/#comment-97261

Puzzled

Lump it all together,
compact and concise,
pack it into memory;
bitter and the nice.

Nervous is the heart,
anxious is the mind,
jittery the palms;
pain is so confined.

Puzzled is the psyche,
patient is the soul,
questing is the self;
so is grief resolved.

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/




 

Waiting for the rains

In that time of waiting, breath held, captured,

as dust sighs on suffocating, surrendered leaf,

silence sits, sullen, suppurating without breeze;

heat holds court, commands; hours textured.

Days are teased through long, stretched seconds,

where minutes sit like years on wearied minds,
as humidity does plot with searing sun defined;

and birds huddle, in gasps which do not lessen.

Breathing through the steaming soup of season,

desperate for the cooling rains to come once more,

watching for bright sky to breed deep, dark flaws;

some do surely stumble into sudden loss of reason.

Madness in those moments of a world expectant,

dragging through the daylight to soothing darkness,

human, animal, bird, leaf and thirsty earth confess;

so all wait for those first drops of rain as presence.

Monsoon One and Two

Monsoon is bared with bitter teeth,

as windy shrieks torment;

the sinking day is ravaged,

the night is fully rent.

Within the howling arms,

we shudder to the floor;

close mind and eyes to sight

and pray for peaceful dawn.

The shattering of windows

with glass in vicious dance;

the timber splinters wilfully

as homes are torn apart.

In small and shivered huddling,

we know ourselves as borne

on arms of deadly wondering,

as Mother Nature yawns.

The eye is hard upon me,

the mouth spits vicious breath;

cyclone in violent birthing,

creates, destroys and rests.

And in the silent endings,

as whispered words are held,

the living drag back into life

and death rings mournful bells.

The night has fallen into day,

the storm into itself

and life returns to broken calm;

where order creeps in stealth.

NB: I wrote this after experiencing one of the worst cyclone's in Bombay's history during Monsoon season. I was protected by hiding under a bed but many living in flimsy shelters, as countless thousands do, were not so lucky and neither were the fishermen whose bodies washed up on the beach for weeks afterwards.



MONSOON TWO

Rain drums shamanic, insistent, determined, deploying liquidity,

reminding, rewarding, renewing all that it meets in downward fall,

washing, rinsing, removing and sustaining life in all its forms;

as if, the heavens had drunk deep, only to release at season's call.

 

In all that sloughing, sundering, swallowing and liquid surrendering,

so do the angels watch, submissive, ordering the elements to rise,

that cycles of dry and wet may be set in harmonic, prayered emotion;

hope can speak again in drowning words, in certain beat with time.

 

The world does dance to rhythms worked in that which is unseen,

and monsoon cannot be held to any sure, or gauranteed account,

these daily drenchings come in ways both whimsical and flawed;

each atom does rejoice when expectations, reality can mount.



NB: I wrote this last year during Malawi's Wet Season.
P.S. I was inspired with more thoughts reading others on dverse but will not post it here as too much to read as it is.





http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/23/poetics-sinful-monsoon/#comment-97137

Voices

What are we if we do not speak,
if our voices cannot be heard,
offering as they do our own meagre
truth, and perceptions which can

come from no other and which
are all we have to hand to another;
hoping only that we can be heard,
even if the words are not welcome?

I ask only that you defend my right
to speak, and allow yourself to
listen, if just to acknowledge that,
like you, I am also here, learning.

Hole in the world

There is a hole in the world where you once were,

a gap of such dimensions it cannot ever be missed,

and yawns in cavernous gaping, like some shocking

smile, smashed open, holding to eternal edges, where

 

my heart hovers by the threatening boundaries of

the abyss, and my mind huddles to one side, every

now and again, peeping into that darkness, as if in

an unexpected moment, I could see you there again;

 

as if I could find your shape deep inside that chasm,

and then, pull it back into place, haul it from the lair,

where it had been hiding, lost to sight, disappeared

into that bunker of time, that grotto of grief which had

 

claimed it, and broken the world I had known asunder,

wrought that fathomless depth with its wounded mouth,

destined to remain open, silent, mocking, keening in

a voice which echoed through memory, and which spoke

 

always of what once was and might never be again,

now that you were lost on the other side of that hole

in the world I once knew, where only your desire could

see you clamber back through, and close it up again.

 

 

 

 

Nightmare

Hideous horse of darkness which cannot be reined,
or pulled to any reasoned stop or place of peace,
but rides the hours of midnight till all is drained;
so does psyche saddle us with no sure release.

Through worlds of dreams and cruel imagining,
the hooves do thunder on our cobbled fears,
allowing nothing in the realms of sleep fulfilling;
draws us on through minutes as if eternal years.

Horror crouches, holding on to sweating beast,
determined not to fall to crushing depths below,
heart pounding as the demons laugh and feast;
so we stay the distance, fast then cruelly slow.

Only in the moments when horizon can be lit,
and daylight draws the torture to a final end,
are we left abandoned, holding rusted, empty bit;
all illusion ended as consciousness does mend.

http://margoroby.com/2015/06/16/poem-tryouts-nightmares/

Dead

Dead, that part of being which could truly feel,
numb the heart of knowing, devoid of relevance,
nothing is important in that place of cold emotion;
sympathetic soul surrenders; bereft of eloquence.

Hungry is the self which craves for new meaning,
scavenging through scattered crumbs of possibility,
picking gently with bony, withered fingers of hope;
desiring to be nourished; healed of vulnerability.

Threaten do the realms of hopelessness and fear,
hostile in dimension and intended brutal cause,
convinced surrender can hold off all future pain;
bent on suffocation  of all senses; no remorse.

Hungry is the self which craves for new meaning,
threaten do the realms of hopelessness and fear,
dead, that part of being which could truly feel;
distant is the song of life: yet love can always hear.

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

Food

Light is made material,
in colour, shape and form,
substantial and ethereal;
all our food is born.

Consciousness in cherries,
cows and carrots too,
cornucopia brimming;
all for me and you.

Nature offers nourishment,
varied and sublime,
bringing us our nutrients;
all that is required.

Succulent the fruits,
tempting all that veg,
nothing can't be used;
everything so fresh.

So is life sure offered,
more than we can eat,
bounty to be gathered;
leaving us replete.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/16/poetics-you-are-my-caviar/

 

Hermit

That place where one can sit in silence, be alone

And where the presence of others is not denied,

But put aside, to form that crucible of isolation;

To make that haven of solace and required distance.

 

If only there were more such quiet realms waiting,

Or ready to be constructed, somewhere inside of mind,

Holding out the promise of peace and concentration;

Undisturbed by noise and travails in this time.

 

Yet in our constant, deep, demanded connection, is

It possible to step aside, to put ourselves beyond

Others, distinct from hearts and minds which call

Across oceans and through hours; always touching?

If only

If only we could turn back time,
or trim the world to fit, edit, tidy
draw new shapes, hold back the
pain a bit. But life remains

inexorable, all happens as it
should, at least that's what I
tell myself, to ease the hurt
which holds, and make it

just more bearable, diluted
in its form, so mind and
heart can process, assimilate,
absorb, and find a place

where hopes can stand, and
where the future hints, of
possibilities, now felt lost;
of love returned as gift.

If only we could turn back time,
or trim the world to fit, edit, tidy
draw new shapes, hold back the
pain a bit. But life remains.......

Place

Having had my first effort at a palindrome summarily removed as a link without any warning or guidance, or time given to correct, I have turned the original variation on the theme of palindrome so it can be read backwards.

And if this gets removed I give up.

I.



The cuckoo in the nest which time did bring,
as if my form could have no settled shape,
destined to be other, held separate and apart:
there seemed to be no place to put myself.

No matter all the efforts and the tears,
the one who would find no sure place to rest,
the cuckoo in the nest which time did bring,
and I was doomed to never quite fit in.

As if my form could have no settled shape,
the twisting to manoeuvre into place,
no matter all the efforts and the tears;
there seemed to be no place to put myself.

As if my form could have no settled shape,
and I was doomed to never quite fit in,
the twisting to manoeuvre into place;
No matter all the efforts and the tears.

The cuckoo in the nest which time did bring:
and I was doomed to never quite fit in,
as if my form could have no settled shape;
there seemed to be no place to put myself.


II.

There seemed to be no place to put myself, 

as if my form could have no settled shape, 

and I was doomed to never quite fit in; 

the cuckoo in the nest which time did bring. 

 

No matter all the efforts and the tears, 

the twisting to manoeuvre into place, 

and I was doomed to never quite fit in; 

as if my form could have no settled shape. 

 

There seemed to be no place to put myself, 

no matter all the efforts and the tears, 

the twisting to manoeuvre into place; 

as if my form could have no settled shape. 

 

And I was doomed to never quite fit in, 

the cuckoo in the nest which time did bring, 

the one who would find no sure place to rest; 

no matter all the efforts and the tears. 

 

There seemed to be no place to put myself, 

destined to be other, held separate and apart, 

as if my form could have no settled shape; 

the cuckoo in the nest which time did bring.

 

 

http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/11/meeting-the-bar-palindrome-poetry

 

Seasons

I watched you over seasons ever long,
saw time take you to where you did belong,
and days draw in to limit, keep, retain;
a song of life sung to its own refrain.

The drum was distant yet you heard the call,
and followed where it led and gave your all,
committed to the path, let angels lead;
left behind what did not fit your creed.

It was as if you followed maps unseen,
determined to make real your inner dreams,
and in the doing left us far behind,
until there was no trace of you to find.

So now we mark the edges of your form,
seek substance in the shadows finely drawn,
and hold to memories of all you were;
gone now, and likely never to return.

 https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/06/11/the-yam/

 

Blemish

Yes I am less than perfect,

those defects are displayed,

the fault of inner grieving;

disfigurement engraved.

But Soul has no deformity,

and ego may be bruised,

as Self repairs the damage

from years of heavy use.

'Erect,' the angels whispered,

stand tall, upright and straight,

hold to your inner knowing,

let no-one fabricate.

There could be no dishonour,

in being who I was,

constructed in experience;

assembled in full trust.

Unique in all time made me,

with foibles, flaws and vice,

lopsided in so many ways,

askew, awry, not nice.

And yet in all the ruins,

of who I might have been,

was someone truly beautiful;

things are not what they seem.

 

For in the dregs and dross,

the blights and scars alike,

stains and smears of being,

we shine as heart's delight.

There can be nothing perfect,

time renders us reduced,

and in the wounds of living,

we find our deepest truths.

 

Blemish, erect, lopsided.

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2015/06/3ww-week-no-431.html

Moon

A light in the moon by Silke Otto-Knapp


Wistful in your rising into sallow night,
holding to horizon as you draw yourself,
up into the dusted, fading drift of sky;
so is moon then placed on heaven's shelf.

Subtle is your dance of yellowed light,
caressing edge and form of all below,
redolent and making darkness bright;
fears dispelled of that we do not know.

Softer is your touch than shining day,
gentler is the face you bring to earth,
wiser is the gift of hallowed gaze;
watching over dreams as they do birth.

Visions creep at edges bare revealed,
hiding from the truth you would display,
sun now lost and for the hours is sealed;
lunacy  does beckon, leads us all astray.



http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/09/poetics-black-and-white/