Majestically, she strode to the edge of sun baked sand, like an hourglass held up by time, before she became still; her long legs equidistant
man lay heel to toe with a savage sun – humanity encrusted with parched earth, it had partially eaten him –
a dried out white dove clung to an exposed ribcage; a much needed perch for a wasted observer tired of flying, tired of singing, lost in his search for peace. Its feathers, etched from fine, dried clay – were fissure like veins devoid of faith – baked outside of death, badly in need of rest.
Her elongated shadow buried them both before she knelt on the earth for water to pour from dainty, silver rivulets that ran her body, which was smooth and flowing sand
he watched her rise, striking the sky with her cool, black silhouette but on the floor it lay outstretched – as an amber pool of honey; he placed in it his hand to taste her
immediately, he was quenched, fed. Arid skin of dust and clay fell away, as did the shell of the dove, which had replaced his heart – its wings shattered into a thousand pieces like baby soft powder dusting the gritty, sparkling floor
in the breeze, billowing white clouds conjured a magnificent topaz bird; its plumage was a thousand lights of peaceful nights held in its tail eyes of beautiful iridescence – tail eyes that had once glimpsed peace in a thousand colours: turquoise, ocean green and gold …
quill feathers wafted the zircon grains of the sand, writing new rules, posturing and reshaping –
beautiful but cruel foundations of peacock ore too brittle to walk on, created swank waves of peacock blues,
and it strutted till a thousand feathers fell on the sand rising once more as blood red poppies that poured in an avalanche from the gaping mouths of soldiers still inside tin helmets – grown men like babes still fighting inside their dreams
he tried to pick the wild flowers for her but barbed, razor wire snagged his crumbling fingers, and hidden behind those were children’s faces pressed against wire mesh on the shores of green, unpleasant lands lapped by oceans that gulped and gagged; force fed a rigorous diet of helplessness and hope each time sand was flipped inside the hourglass
he gripped her waist, but, his reflection caught on her glass bosom, it shattered her hourglass frame
she was released
a thousand more grains of sand flowed like the salt of his tears – sprinkling gently from a watering can’s wise rose to try to feed the presumption of green leaves between his toes
his flaking sinews were pulled to his chest; he wore a crude hole where the dove had nestled – dust stung his eyes and, his tattered hands rose, forming a bridge that the sun rode across to join him at his journey’s end
red jewel fish swam ahead of her in shoals of beating hearts – riders corralled the sand storm’s cloth approaching like a whirling dervish; her titian hair draped those black, almond desert eyes,
and their glinting sunlit flecks consumed time in their frenzy – she placed the convergence of jewel fish; a plump, red heart, within his rib cage,
she was a belly dancer for a while on the sand’s hypnotic gyrations prompting creatures with a spin of time to play music inside of their shells
her lips were kissed by one thousand butterflies, and her open palms let loose a chorus of titanium white doves; all of the notes to harmonise with man’s discord – all willing one more time to fly away in a relentless search for peace and to sing for another one thousand years –
time enough, she thought, before they’d need a place to rest
I say goodbye holding your hand, desperately searching for raw comfort, but from clay cold skin and defeated flesh, words will no longer form, nor draw me close. You hold a smile, and it squeezes my heart softly with a palpable sense of who I am and who we were. I think you have just found a dream inside of death, and see a vision higher than we, one rich in vitality for your journey or destiny – I don’t believe we are really saying goodbye, and so, sweet dreams, my love – stay far from errant shadows – so I can see you on the other side.
A flicker, a stare, fires the column, bled bare, by the pale yellow, violet flame as
its gliding wax grips and its rhythmic drip sets fast, and not unlike our game. The Slowness of time runs with our thoughts down this vine as I tease the quick with scorched fingers. And, as is your want, you navigate me, and like moths, we self destruct when we linger. A stolid breath of air soon releases our stares, and we flinch in the flame’s parting sigh; its sulphuric stench from the quickening wrench, reminds me of that stark light – as sleeping birds hum and a candlelit morn draws nigh.
I have been here at WordPress for five years apparently. Thanks to everyone who has supported my efforts, and those in passing, who have stopped a while. Be safe out there until this surreal period of our lives is over. Take care.
With every sound of each word uttered there is pause, a silence – as if waiting for the touch of a lover – distant still, but out there.
Until such time, words float as poetry, lightly wrought on cool staves, only now just stirring; no tone is forced, just harsh and breathy –
they wait, and would wait forever, as every song, like love, is incomplete until it hears its heart echo.
‘Miss me not ‘til I have died, then always remember me…’
In the early glow of dawn, silence rolls on the bosom of heavy clouds – solemn doves in a new formation accompany sunrise, hearing the sound of an abundance of rain.
Above tumulus soil, peace remains a warm blanket for all who were lost there since death is an aching cold, and mired in these fatigued and embattled lands; lands where life spilled into dying, and courage became mulch to the seeds that were sown. Acres of crimson mist undulate to waft forever in cool breezes; its pitch black eyes peer though the ruddy murk, we feel the pulse of its stoic heart, and, we are touched by the dew atop each poppy’s blade. All are there to remind us still, and without words often drowned by time.
Raindrops sheet in silver threads to lace our silent tears. And, as the flight of doves let loose like windswept petals, to surrender one by one, we humbly promise
I found this and turns out it was one of the first posts I made here back in November 2015, but I think I had written it around 2006 or so. A bit bleak, but hey ho. Anyway, I hope you are all doing well, and staying safe! Take care.
It’s been such a long time; it could be ten thousand years. Time passes much faster when you cry all your tears. Last time I looked back, I could only see my feet. I never saw the sky, I missed a treat, and I miss my old life. I can only look back and cry. I miss my future, but it is too late, I say. And, I cry for the passing of time, all of the day.
‘There are blue skies and a cold yearning face. Catching the breeze with eyes closed in embrace. Swirled on tip toes, hearts lift in the air; wind cool on the fingertips is chilled in the stare. Longing and heartache kept warm all the while, and never a dry eye let down by goodbye. She holds it all in still after many have cared, but don’t tell her you’re leaving, don’t stroke her there.’
I take off my robe in ankles held deep. My hands fill the water with each step of my feet. The waves fully clothe me until I’m replete. I disappear from view to drown in this pain; and I miss my future, fresh and anew, but, I can see the stars now, over and over and over again.
I am a poem that roams, sprawls and meanders, but can also be still a while – enough to heal a dying a heart, a heart in need of nurture – a living, pounding thing deserving of meaningful blood, a blood that would keep the soul alive, that would will the vessel to breath; they, in part, belong to me. So, I roam and thrive and pump my life’s air into another, so that I will not die.
I am a heart that flounders, and with open wounds, but can still be revived with love, even when the daylight has gone from its shell. Still a living thing, desperate for the richest ebony, I keep his pulse vital – a pulse that throbs in my own veins. So, I knead and revive, and breath life into those tired chambers, lest I die.
I am one half of one thing, drinking the necessary fluids that course through our minds and truths. We are never separated from each other like a lie from a consequence devoid of honesty. Morbid collections of everyday fodder clog and wither the youth of a valve – I am constantly reborn as a testament to love in case it should not survive..
The ancient bell of the temple summons lost spirits to prayers; murk figures roam alone unacquainted on snow covered mountains where peaks punctuate streaming cauldron clouds, drawing birds that circle the meditative winds. Chimes from the west, bring the mist in to wander with the wind from the east – dusk strikes the temple bell for worship; the tranquil mist rolls away and vanishes to rejoin the hawks circling the snowy peaks in meditative glide.