Categories
Poetry

Empty

I open my heart

and close my eyes.

And I am just me.

Just me

in this silent night.

Let me be empty.

Categories
Poetry

Energy

Energy speaks

truer

than words.

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

The Home Of Me

For when the rain comes,

I know I am safe in the home

of me.

Photo by Hassan OUAJBIR on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Love Kept Her

And with a smile,

she held life gone by.

And love kept her.

Love kept her,

home.

Home, at last.

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.

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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.

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Categories
Life

Alone

It is raining, and I am alone.

And there is sorrow in these parts, and knowing that life is terrible and beautiful, all at the same time.

I am alive with all of that.

I am alive with the sorrow and all the quiet of all the world.

I shall drink some coffee.

I shall drink it well, and hold my cup with love.

Categories
Life

The Quiet

The quiet has come upon me, and so I have to write.

It’s a strange quiet, a wonderful one, however mixed with a soft melancholy. It’s been with me, on and off, for as long as I can remember, and so it is that I recognise this feeling as my soul.

The little girl me felt it when she looked out at the big world, an ant amongst giants.

The teenage me felt it when she saw the grey sadness of all the adults passing by.

And now I feel it. When I am not thinking life, but feeling it all the way through to the tender aching parts.

Every version of me has used this quiet to write.

So what is the purpose of this particular post, you might ask, and if you were to ask this you’d be right to do so. I am asking this. But the truth is, I know the answer.

The answer is: my soul has nothing to say, still she must speak.

And this is how she does so.

This is how she sways into the world beyond my eyes.

She has never needed a reason for that.

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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?