It wasn’t an accomplishment,
laying in half cocked heather,
grey as dawn
shrouded final breaths,
beads of dew
glistening silvery webs
rolling tracks down sodden cheeks.
It was no effort
holding that heart to rest
in a myriath of broken promises and lies
an Avalon too far to reach
a hairs breath,
exhaled, lost in watery mist.
I thought I heard
my name whispered
just as the pale ray reached
and I lost tomorrow
amidst the thrall
I am discontent
like the calling of twilight
when it illuminates the dark cross of stone on the Cnicht.
Some lowly animal howls its last
in desperation below on cold crags.
Alone, without a heartbeat to soothe
not a single touch to reassure,
an invisible hand to cup a breast,
only waxing moonlight,
a cold companion on restless nights.
Somewhere in the wilderness a kite screams,
in the dark her cries are lost in translation,
forgotten in the trickle of stream down to sea,
brushed aside as wind tickles read,
ink runs dry in the pen.
All warmth radiated away,
life sucked from barren marsh
yet I hear
our language breathe
No instruction booklet.
Fumbling in darkness, awkward
like thirty something year old babes
listening for the knowing click
of the child proof lids.
A little adrenaline perhaps?
our hands found each other
strangely shy without
urge of teenage hormones
wafts of warm
Shadows a mass casting their remnants
gnarled around roots of ancient oaks,
trees that sigh old tales,
singed by dragons breath
scarred by murderous history.
Their skeletal fingers wave a final goodby
before a yellowed disk
always beyond our reach,
looking down and recording
annals of time, benevolently hapless.
Jaundiced kisses of stars,
fighting for their own place in the paling sky,
voiceless entities, striving to be heard
above the hoot of a stray owl
hunting in these woods.
The crunch of frost beneath
haunting an echo,
stirring old spirits to dance
in the pant of frigid exhalation.
As the dormouse scuttles to her den
unconcerned but for feeding her brood,
Why do I question the belljar
of this cooling twilight
under the stare of a silent disk?
Solitary chewed end pencil
sedately perched on desk,
yearning tap tap of fingers in thought
waiting for rhythm and flow
to return with the muse,
missing in action
hidden beneath a velour vail
of strung together ideals.
Tendrils of hair cling
spiraling around her weapon of choice,
her most precious object,
collector of angsts tendrils
thoughts accumulated in strings
plucked from a weary scalp.
forgotten? Scribbled forms in tatty
Avant garde notepads battered
dogeared doodles –
Questioning her own reality
against a tirade of other people’s ideas and ideals.
These idiosyncratic semi autobiographical meanderings,
an honest reflection of one woman’s perception,
Or her illusion of what life is like
through tired blue eyes.
When nights cool
Dying day in grey light
hued sky on bruised lips,
enlightened by a flicker-
finger traced around lines of laughter.
Pause, anticipation of steady breath,
in moment post-heat,
where words are void
but silence sings vividly
sending shivers down supine spine.
Darkness undresses, gets into bed
warming buried bones,
languidly the lips brush, explore,
rekindle a phoenix flame
in these ashen nights, that grew so cold.
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Charlotte Perkins Gilman Poems
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John Keats Poems
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William Blake Poems
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