The stream (all workshops)
At the sound
Of her voice
Agony grows
Weary
She knows
The pain
Of living with
A two headed demon
That nauseates
Stomachs
She understood
The fear in a voice
The sweat dripping
From palms
Finding safety
From the seed of
Growing paranoia
Dancing on the page
Leaving images behind
Giving birth to words
That saves
Pilots of Pages.
I set my pen against paper
like a rudder entering water
the pen guides this paper
to it’s conclusion.
Such simple thoughts are
scary even hard to comprehend.
We are I believe pilots of the pen,
obtuse maybe, playful certainly,
serious sometimes, downright angry,
frightened, brilliant, almost anything
you can imagine we are, but pilots
Canto Two ~ It is dawn of the morning following.
Battle has ended, but the storm has not. Amidst the destruction common to combat's aftermath, a squeak of wagon wheels heralds the entrance of a small band. Three strange individuals, as unlike each other as three could be, come seeking those who yet remain alive upon the field.
the window full of bright
I watch the birds hover
and slide from view
the traffic waiting for the light
and I catch the colour
of your hue
the calm serenity of you
the coffee rich I sip and taste
the hours watch
I must keep haste
the quick exam your beauty
based
the pale flow
hair held by bow
away and from the shop I walk
and listen to the ravens talk
and place this moment
under lock
for rainy days
and thought filled ways
Nature's words.
The firs and pines they speak
their wind tossed branches
wave their words
across the miles of lake
to echo in the firmament
up high
where skylarks fly
and birds of prey they wait
to spy the mouse and vole
far down below
I'm a bitch
Jump in feet first
and think later.
Volatile witch
quick to anger,
Curse and fight.
Someone attacks me
they live to regret It
they will never forget it.
Filled with self loathing
Brimming with remorse,
Overflowing with regret.
Not to proud to admit
When I'm wrong,
Even when my foots in my mouth.
there is no cure
for this melodrama
there is blood on my fingers
where i touched your wounds,
you said we all have them
and some are well-hidden
some follow us with hound-dog eyes
inconsolable and lonely for his master,
the spirit of the wind
shakes the dream catcher
halfway to paradise
the parchment of this poem,
an unspoken sin
that catches fire,
our ashes rising,
sing.
The flame in me
Which burns
Endlessly
Is about to be quenched
Awaiting my need
Is my love
On wings of gossamer
I fly like the birds
That migrate home
After winters cold
To the warmth
That touches me
Deep within my
Soul
Our love is a volcano
Erupting
Taking us beyond
The highest
Chakra
And holding us
In bliss
Unripened fears
obscurred by misty, future tears
everblurring visions
of what I hope will soon happen to me;
daunted passions
clouded windows, and myriad "jarred" doors.
By my own admissions,
how can I know for sure that, a dream realized will console me?
Unlikely-like personified!
Guess who joined me in my realm!?!
The "lass" from Impressionatomy
has returned to overwhelm.
These days it doesn't take too much
for me to end up all "twitter-twirl",
I'm known in these parts for ruining topics
when talking to, or in front of a girl!
Who could even say, "why" she'd return
maybe last time seemed like, fun!
She's either brave, or awful dumb
most others would've turned to run!
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