Categories
Poetry

Rain

Today, there is rain.

And the most beautiful peace.

Categories
Poetry

Sleep

Oh, weary soul.

I barely see you behind those tired eyes.

Let us rest, deeply,

beautifully,

with compassion

for all life has given, harshly.

It is a darling life.

A life to be cherished

with each breath of our aching day.

I sleep, now,

knowing morning matters

only when it greets me.

I sleep, now.

I sleep, now.

Categories
Poetry

Wildflowers

I must remind myself:

the wildflowers will wait.

Categories
Poetry

Sensible

Shall I be sensible

a moment?

Oh, dying to live,

dear dreary day.

Let you find me

twisted beautifully

among the berry vines.

Let you be the one

to be sensible.

Categories
Poetry

Lonely

But I am the wind.

And my soul is alone

as it blows through the jars

of neat and tidy life.

Oh, the aching.

For, home floats free;

I will never be bound.

Can you not see?

I will never be bound.

And my heart cries,

lonely.

My heart cries.

Lonely.

Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

All My Softness

I am home when the beautiful song of my heart is at peace.

There is nothing loud, here, nothing beyond the birds and the rippling pools of shadow on brick.

I am just me, in all of my softness.

Me, in this beautiful place, home.

I have loved tenderly, here.

I will always love tenderly.

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Categories
Poetry

Happy One

There is a tear in my soul.

They want me to smile,

all the time, they want me to be fine,

this world.

But I am not

(though I am.)

There is a weeping tear.

A wound unhealed and breaking

ever deeper,

every day.

I will tell you this:

I am fine.

And I am,

six colours of the rainbow, fine.

The seventh colour.

It is a golden tar.

An aching soul,

searching.

An aching child

within the hardened walls

of a happy one.

Photo by Khoa Vu00f5 on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Fathers

It started with the Fathers of the Fathers.

Each ache, each man left broken

by the one who came before him:

not his fault,

that pain, continued.

But an unwanted gift, often unseen,

too often delivered.

It must now be seen.

It must now stop,

to break the rusty chain.

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Categories
Poetry

Feathers

She fled her body, to where the poets fly.

Her heart lived in that place,

an angel by night light.

There were feathers on the wind of day,

and music, like a lovers kiss, drifting.

Oh, how she loved, there.

Oh, how she loved.

And how she missed that beautiful whisper

when down to earth

she fell.

Photo by Viktorya Sergeeva ud83dudc99ud83dudc9bud83eudec2 on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

The Orchard

As I sit quietly, alone,

with the birds as my friends,

I watch the orchard

sway with the breeze

and I ask myself:

Is it the orchard, alone, I see?

Or has the orchard become

the miraculous creation

of the wind?