Memento

It has faded, the image
of Christ, we bought in
Russia. Neither of us
believed, but valued

the art of the icon, in
which others invest so
much faith, hope and
trust, deserving to have

it more than we did,
and yet, perhaps in that
place of non-belief, we
put our coins on the

counter, as an act of
trust, hope and faith,
even if we did not know
it, or, even dared to think

that it might possess a
power beyond its small,
material self, which,
while faded, in that time

bleeding which happens
to all things, still offers
beauty, grace, and a faint
sense of pure possibility.

https://dversepoets.com/2017/02/28/one-memento/

Prose

I pose the possibility
that prose is not a word
to fit with any poetry;
the concept is absurd.

For prose is just the way
we speak, no metre, and
no rhyme; no meeting to
be had, in poetry sublime.



https://dversepoets.com/2017/03/02/mtb-prose-poetry

Reflected

Reflected, in the mirror
of your eyes, remembering
in that dream of who you
were, who I was, or might

have been, if things had
been different, if the depths
of your being, had, like the
lake, flung back the truth

of who you were, who I
was, or might be; and yet
even if it had, I would only
ever have been a reflection.

https://redwolfpoems.wordpress.com/2017/03/05/prompt-for-rwj-prompt-245/

Small stones for March

March 1

Days draw deep 

and quiet, as noisy 

magpies sing.

March 2

Autumn whispers through

the tangled skirts of 

fading Summer.

March 4

Love breathes hollow,
ashen-faced, upon
hard chest of grief.

March 3

Clotted skies of 
sombre brooding;

Autumn taps her feet.
March 5

Hope, holds steady

pace, on Fear’s

parade ground.

March 6.

Rain like mist,
whispers to the
reaching grass.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/1353234084738469/?fref=nf

On caring

There are times when those,
we love, become ravelled in
deep places, dark abodes, of
being, and they can no longer

hear our voice, sense our
presence, feel our love, and
instead, they build walls of
thought, to hold back the tides

of connection; placing cold
fingers in seeping cracks, to
ensure, that the feelings will
not break through, to wash

them clean of the pain, and
hurt, and all we can do, on
the other side, is pray with
love and bright compassion.

Prayers

Prayers carved brown
the detail, written deep
in doors, ignoring ancient
papers, to set the stone
once more.

Fire bled into being,
seared body, mind and
soul, as soldiers now
victorious , dreamed of
home long gone.

Time dragged ragged
fingernails, across the page
of life, and rent the darkness
viciously, to show us
something bright.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2017/02/12/wordle-286/

SLANT

 

 

Life  does often seek to manage mind,
where sanity demands another face,
and reason edits out discordant sound;
so is the heart embraced in mental vice.

Reality  becomes a ghastly, raging foe,
where thoughts fill  narrow ranks as demons,
defies the bounds of what we want to know;
hope on salted ground is surely leavened.


Insanity can hold the upper stony ground,
and mock from echoed distance all we are,
so do the angels hold out waiting hand;
salvation shines although its touch is rare.

Slant does twist the world of outer truth,
invokes that dance polarity to then ensure,
a mirror which reflects what is, as both;
in opposites,  all then revealed as pure.