The languid time of evening
Comes in flames,
Searching horizons
In their lazy, twisting way
For truths and hearts.
Forever searching
For another flaming heart
To serve as a twin
As if that could be found
In such languid searching
In slowing time
Between sunset and sunrise,
Each a prize of flame,
never finding another flaming heart.
I burned The Witch of Frost,
Melted away her power,
So–
I am no longer
Bewitched by frost
In chilling climes.
Neither am I
Spellbound by lighted
Fires of fake fantastical
Promises of ghosts—
Nor can I hear
Whispering words meant
To warm you against the frost
Of lies used to charm,
Bewitching you
Into believing
Frost’s chilling, icy burn
Is desire’s fire warming.
Ignoring the ripples doesn’t work,
Beautiful though they may be
In the early light of an autumn dawn.
The ripples return.
Their warmth long gone,
Drained of blood.
Injected with colors of autumn’s dawn,
They look full, alive with mysterious meaning.
But cold these ripples remain
In their return to me.
Time shifts,
Tilting beneath my feet.
I shutter and stare, a moment only—
I cannot weave these cold things
Into a useful thing, resembling you.
Lucidity picks at the chains wrapped round a soul
Anchored to the ground of fears bought whole
In the marketplace while traipsing through dreams
Resplendent with beauty and flights of fanciful imaginings
That harsh noisy words and bruising blows etched,
Tattooed lucid fears.
Meet me in the field
Where heather sways with the wind
Through time we will live.
Life, never a friend,
Kept us from knowing true joy,
Meet me in the field,
Where loss is gaining
And grief blossoms into joy
Meet me where gold grows.
When you found the things you could,
A mist of breath showed in the rain,
Twin clouded rain shimmered colors
Of gray stone before you on a path you would go.
If only, if only, you should know the bones of us,
Move knotted stiff with the griefs you’ve piled upon your soul,
We’d glow of phosphorus and neon in velvet darkness.
Walking the dark, shadowed canyon of dreams
Wilted by disappointments and deflated sunshine
Waking to dimmest daylight at noon
Where you cannot bear to look
Upon your own reflection,
A sight of horror in your own eyes now
In that cracked crystal ball where you stand,
In your own self-consecrated field
Of plastic flowers bowing their majestic heads to you,
Your straw haired head is bowed,
Smiling at the ground.
As if I’d eaten some ancient grain
Meant for those of a long dead warrior hearted strain
I strengthen myself with tears.
Over the bare years
Only you knew innocence
Truth, ruin in seas–
Imagined decades
No time for flowers and aches
Realize in drifting
Down years– no disaster
Were you in the end,
We were just a moment.
The impact of broken glass shards–
A mistake with need to drip blood.
Make a presence known of parts
Marred and greetings sent
For what they would take,
Staking once again the claim
To snatch away, drain
Blood from a soul
Needed to adorn
Her ego’s bleached crown,
A haystack of needles
Pricking the fingertips,
A crown of thorns in reverse,
She claims its softness for you.
Although I am not white, I admit I enjoy white privilege because most people perceive me as white. My mother was Melungeon, a mix raced people of Appalachia, and my real father was of Hispanic heritage. Most people look at me and see white features and assume a Greek or Italian heritage. Yes, some ignorant people have said stupid, racist things to me because of their assumption of my whiteness. In light of recent events, the privilege given to me by my features and skin color demands that I stand up to help.
We sat silent, complacent too long
Our children safe.
Between threats to our black and brown
Sisters and brothers,
We must shield– intrepid, resolute,
taking spit, hits,
gas, lash, bricks
even death, should it come to that
So nothing touches them.
We must fulfill the promise of our nation—
All are equal
The guardian watches the sea,
Waiting patiently
For the return of old ones
Who long ago slipped away
Out to sea, speaking
Words of promise,
Words of return–
Not unlike your words to me.
Like you, the old ones
Will not return,
Lost in an ocean
Of time long forgotten.
They found new homes
Where to light their fires,
Burning away old, shriveled desires,
Burning away the salt of the sea,
And the dirt of old known shores.
The guardian waits,
Like a widow upon her widow’s walk,
Staring out to sea.
But as I have finished waiting,
I must walk away.
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
spit, mixed with dirt - muddy words flow
Sharing words of Support, Motivation and Compassion
~ Communicator, WordSmith, Artist, Guide, Mentor, Muse ~
Where writers gather
Atmospheric Mind Flow
Driveling twaddle by an old flapdoodle.
stories, poems and more
May the Words Flow
Poets lie all the time but there are some truths only poetry can tell.
Now we see through a glass, darkly
The Writer
Just a small town girl who writes about Christian stuff.
Musings on life, love, and healing past trauma
Sharing Poetry and Hugs
Poems, Ramblings and Photography
KL CALEY
Inspiration and Spirituality **Award Free**
Growing with gratitude for life's challenges
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
These are my inner thoughts, passions and inspirations.
An insight to a heart mind and soul.
An onion has many layers. So have I!
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
Alternative haven for the Daily Post's mourners!
A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature. Over 15,000 daily subscribers. Over 7,000 archived posts.
Echoes of Life, Love and Laughter
Poetry
Showcasing the best of short films and screenplays from the LGBTQ+ community. Screenplay Winner every single month performed by professional actors. Film Festival occurs 21 times a year!
A Discovery of Enlightening Insights, Information, Humor, Writings and Musings
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
Premium Poetry Page Peskily Pondered Profoundly
Doing the best I can to keep it on the bright side
An Old Plumber, An Ex-Carer, An Amateur Poet, Words From The Heart
Celebrating what makes Brittany unique
A storyteller with a poetic heart
...poetry, stories & rants.
Poetry by Devon Brock
by Lize Bard
Experiments in Creative Writing, and more ....
Author Aspiring
My views; a broad.
Less is not enough.
The Map is not the Territory, the Word is not the thing it describes
The Truth for Kyle
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 