Remember

Remember those moments when we touched,
beyond the physical, as if hearts were beating
their song, together; steady, strong, rhythmic,
 in tune, connected by the power of love?

Remember those moments when we touched,
only in the physical, and our hearts were beating
their separate songs, alone, erratic, weak, lacking
in harmony, disconnected and out of love?

Crane Bag

There was this urge within, this primal, hidden drive,
which called soul on through dark eternal night,
to hold the hand of spirit, keep purpose to her side;
know that demons called and even angels lied.



Forgetting that this life would pay no certain wage,
that destiny beat time, the rhythm surely saved,
even though the pledge was set and fully made;
so grief would stand aside with darkened face.



To sit within the shadowed nave of wisdom's church,
where love could suckle at the breast of ancient nurse,
and know that fate had written deep of pain and worse;
yet still strive on, determined, toward the waiting purse.

The crane bag held all secrets, treasures shining, that
would gift the life eternal; draw hope so slowly back.


http://dversepoets.com/2014/02/13/meeting-the-bar-bout-rimes/#respond

Today, I’d like to challenge the dVerse community to play bout rimés with the following set of rhymes, which are taken from a sonnet by a contemporary poet:

drive, side, 

night, lied, 

wage, saved, 

made, face,

 nurse, church, 

worse, purse, 

back, that.

The mystery of a gun

Why would someone want
to have a weapon which can kill ?
Why would someone think it clever,
to injure, hurt, destroy?
Why would someone take delight
in blood and tears and death?
Why would someone think a gun
defends against all threats?
Why would someone so mistrust
this life and all it brings?
Why would someone bathe in blood,
a bird which only sings?
Why would someone let their child
hold such angry thoughts?
Why would someone teach their child
a gun is how life works?
Why would someone want to aim
and fire with deadly force?
Why would someone so despair
a gun is all they trust?
Why would someone so believe
that guns must be a must?
The mystery is written clear,
and easy to define,
a gun makes them feel powerful,
but maims their soul inside.
And yet the truth is never told,
that power rests in them not,
nor in the gun they think they need;
it's fear which calls the shots.




http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2014/02/13/prompt-200-young-mysteries/#respond

Arms

Crossed and closed, connected, keeping tight myself,
I hold my arms, imprison heart, refuse to then release,
so self can be protected, armed against all pain, and we
are disconnected; you've gone, your arms deceived.

I huddled into your embrace, believed that it was true,
and yet the moments did not last, nothing held, endured,
and so I arm myself against, the pain of love and trust,
this weapon now will keep me safe, for you are surely lost.

http://margoroby.com/2014/02/11/poem-tryouts-to-arms/#respond

Flayed by love

Flayed by love, dissected, the bones laid neat,
in rows, reflective, like ivory polished, rubbed,
glinting in the moon's breath; wiped by sorrow,
counted, held accountable, registered akashic,
known by their shape and form and place, ready
to be carefully selected and returned, restored,
re-membered, in the shadowed caves of knowing,
those caverns of the psyche, where soul works,
the skin is hung on hooks; the heart laid bare,
still pulsing, steady, waiting, holding to the truth,
of who you were, and will be again, when the time,
has come to put it all together in new ways of
being, so that life can come from death's cold
hands, which rub bone on bone, blowing slow,
to spark the flames which call new Self to being.

Gritty mind

Thoughts crash like waves on sodden, gritty mind,
as if demanding in their surge and salted fall,
that heed be taken of their power, their right,
to wash across the face of beached belief,
removing, making clean and fresh; purified again,
by seas of tears and doubt, which smash in ancient
rhythm, pounding down through hopes and fears;
endless, eternal, driven by psyche's urge to live.

No longer

In a time of pure connection,

the serpent rose and called,

that all was lost,  unforgiven,

and grief traced long lines, as

sorrow held her head in hands

that  no longer held you.



http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/02/trifextra-week-102.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+trifectawritingchallenge%2FIazs+%28Trifecta%29