Bitter

Bitter burst the moments,
pungent, dark perfume,
acrid in their energy;
so our love was doomed.

Glorious the leaving,
worthy of your grace,
admiration suppurates;
leaves a foul taste.

Stumble did the feelings,
tripping over grief,
falling into futures;
so my heart released.




http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2015/04/3ww-week-no-425.html

 

 

From whence I come...

In that place where sky rolls endless,
unravelling across shining vision,
and  colours are lit with brilliance,
unknown beyond its distant shores,

as if the sun holds court across the
eucalypt-scattered landscape, teasing
at the shadows and throwing into
stark relief, the shape and form of

things held captive by surrounding,
crashing seas; a continent long
hidden and contained, where time
has rubbed through aeons, high

mountains, now made ripples on
horizons which sigh at the chin
of cerulean  heavens, and ruffle
loosely across ancient, dusty

shoulders of becoming; holding
in place, the deep, red, beating
heart of the planet, as songs
dig deep, invisible, ancient lines.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/04/28/poetics-where-are-you-from/

Rain

Rain dribbled, pain reflected,
glittered, brittle sodden image,
coursing on hard glass, held
in frozen surrendering, pure

liquid, drenching through my
being, drizzling slowly on
the face of consciousness;
reminding in that slow, wet

demonstration, that when the
hour is cold enough, it will
become hard, and frost my
Soul, iced across each day

and needing to be chipped
steadily, slowly, carefully,
so that once again I can see
clearly, until the sun shines.

Refugee

Nights imprisoned in barbed imaginings,
horizons held in the realm of dreams,
searing fear and pounding hearts with
every knock, or unknown echo, hollow

in the long, breathless darkness, where
possibility weeps in crippled corners,
and nightmares huddle on edges of
mind, whispering in brittle, razor-edged

tones of what might come to pass; running
relentless images through endless reels
of thought, turning, over and over again
in tangled moments and maybes, lives

lived once, or not yet known, woven tight
in scramblings of horror; plaited into
greasy place, against pale, bloodless
cheeks, where warm tears course down,

beyond the place of hope and reason,
into pools of deep helplessness, where,
past, present and future become as one,
and that which had been left behind, was

now, a newly dressed reality, in a land
far beyond home, where bleaker truths,
stood waiting on bleached beaches, and
boats lay broken in useless torment.

When death calls

When Death calls be prepared to listen intently,
for the words can be whispered in deep, dark silence;
not always are they delivered in loud echoes.

We like to pretend that the end will not come,
for denial draws soft covers over endless fears,
comforting, containing and burying them deep.

And yet the shape can always be almost detected,
that curve and rising of the cloth of life betrays,
our destiny, which was drawn so long, long ago.

It is when we study closely, the warp and weft,
pick with fingers at the threads and hems of days,
it is possible to see where fate has led us.

Embrace it all, for true vision reveals there is no time,
wisdom demands that we hold to the revelations,
spoken so eloquently throughout the ages.

From that first step upon the path of material being,
we have been drawn and led to the considered end,
and so, when Death calls be prepared to listen intently,
for the words can be whispered in deep, dark silence.


http://dversepoets.com/2015/04/02/the-art-of-villanelle/