and the porch light hums
the sound of another
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
Night sounds come in floods
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
The girl turns to face
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
I water my garden
I tend to Wander and Lust
And between Wild and Sweet is no place to be
The rush of the wind over the river dry cuts
Through the garden mine
And compels the dust to whisper
Whisper, I know you,
Little Noise White
It whittles my garden
Down to the snow-white bones
And lies, like every flake of snow in my garden
Unique and terrible each
Unique little white lies
Over my garden
One after another unlike the others
Ill-fitting coats in the high, high heat
Ill-fitting the other
One after another
Fallen to the ground too late for roots
The hard-won shoots shoot
They shoot the sky
They cast little shadows behind
My garden, I
The wind blows
And the seeds are carried away
They grow in fields strange
Where others tend to the wolves and I
Like the black sheep stray
Drawn by the clouds,
The hard-won shoots shoot
They shoot the sky
And cast little shadows behind
Little stormcrow leave
Your place is no place to be
My garden, I
Water every day
The water is rising
And the seeds are floating away
They drown in rivers strange
Where others swim in the water and I
In the deep end laid
The end of the line
Shoots the sky and falls
Too late for roots
My garden, I
Grow every day
The sky is falling
And the shoots are tumbling away
They die in meadows strange
Where the grass grows inside and I
Like the black widow play
Too late for roots I shoot the sky
And I cry
- A. H. Sewell ©2015
You can pick up a copy of my eBook "City Sticks - A Collection of 50 Poems" from Smashwords at the link listed below. Come stop by my blog or friend/follow me on Facebook, too! (Links listed below.)
She sings in soft tones,
her magic exists beyond the obvious.
Listen closely to her wanting,
She is wrapped in a trancendent light.
chasing white rabbits.
Grasping for the infinite,
with delicate hands.
Dances within her luminosity.
Flying on yesterday's wings,
carrying smiles that are meant for tommorow.
Witness her as she waits to exhale.
A daisy chain,
tied around her wrist.
A future promise to be kept.
For within her spirit,
exists a burning passion!
She awaits one who is worthy,
of her consuming flame
Although she is unaware,
hers is a temporary sadness.
Happiness flirts at the edge of her dreaming,
waiting for an open window.
His shadow hidden behind frosted glass.
Shades of green,
turn brilliant yellow!
Buttercups dance around her feet.
Her laughter floats across the meadow.
Happiness runs to her open arms.
Together they skip, to her apple tree.
For hers is a faith that trancends the temple.
Her spirit sought and found salvation.
He had been with her all along,
I can see it in her smile.
The rain has passed and sunshine resides in her eyes!
For Catie Lindsey's contest.
I hope she sees beyond her shadows to her field of buttercups.
Color me white, or color me black. Color
me brown, or color me red. Color me
yellow, but color me to be just me.
Color me anyway you want. You are the
artist, you know what to do, just capture
my beauty and let it show through.
My beauty is not on the outside for everyone
to see. My beauty comes from within and
few people have seen.
Color me with the colors that you so much
love to use and when people see this painting,
they will see themselves in me.
The people will ask you - why did you put so
many colors on me and you will tell them - because
the beauty I did see.
The painting is now finished, the artist has done
his job. A painting of many colors, that he is very
The colors bring beauty to the painting on the
wall, but if we were all colored blind - we wouldn't
see any colors at all...
Copyright: written by
Lucilla M. Carrillo
I wrote this poem because through out life
I have seen a lot of injustice done, because
of who we are , or where we came from. We
did not choose to be who we are, or where
we came from. God chose that for us. I don't
think God made a mistake when He made us.
He had His reasons. We are who we are, that
can never be changed. We live in this world.
We are God's Race...
i wanted it...my God i wanted it
...but how do you do that...
the second you touch it...
it's the curse of being alive. After all...what are we?
a bundle of thin blue wires...some red tubing
our largest organ is our skin...What are we?
our brains are unreliable...our emotions uncontrollable.
you want to grab it...hold it...
good luck! it's a lubricated bar of soap, you can't hold
i've tried...my life has been nothing but trying to hold on to it.
how can you be in it? how? if you can't even hold it...
i feel like an astronaut
moving aimlessly in space with no tether!
love would be my first choice.
when i delivered both my daughters at home
pulled them out carefully from their mothers womb...Gone!
their lives from one second old to now...Gone!
women...oh how i have loved...made love
i have several doctorates in love making
i hold women more carefully
than i do an over bloomed flower
as to not lose a single petal.
i refuse to breathe
just to hold their scent
as long i can.
treasure their face...
die in the act of a single kiss
dress myself in their skin.
it can't be done
as soon as it happens
it is gone
you can't live there
it is like Brigadoon.
you'll never find it again.
you can't really live in the moment
it is gone as you live it...
the present, is immediately...the past
it is fleeting
never to be held
i want so many moments back...
just to live in them.
you can't...you don't.
we live what was...
dream of what might be.
live in the moment?
as my words hit the page...the moments passed.
in the moment?
yes! i know i've been there
i just can't hold it.
the smell of the ocean...
it's loud heavy metal music...
the meandering haze in the air
that "i am invincible" feeling
the first time you held her...
your one true love now gone.
the chiseled pillow look of clouds
looking down at you
as if you were the one.
that huge neon moon...
sits low in its living room.
a baby breeze
touches lightly your breath.
a gripping moment
of unconscious union
in the moment?
it's always left as it happens.
gone quicker than lived
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Contest Name: In The Moment
what grows from these petri dishes?
when will these hives
with their metal monsters
their deceiving smiles
their artistic like visages
like a virus?
what of the fertile land they cover,
the resources they consume?
what of their ravenous appetite?
a forest untouched.
Looked at the outside of steel window
Around in the dark, awesome feelings into the mid-night air
What the news was brought in the feelings!
Eyes of the orphan cat was flaming on the corridor.
Waiting for the light in the window
Dark vision comes down into my eyes by cycle-weariness
Down from one circle to another circle in time-blindness
Who stands here, the Islamic old man!
History of terrorism was carved on his burnt body
He wants to say something!
A white-complexioned Christian young man stands into the neighbor circle,
White-skinned history was printed on his blood-stained body
He wants to know something!
A dark-colored Hindu boy stands into the third circle,
History of third world is awakened on his envenomed body
He wants a little smile!
The old man, young man and boy are coming forward from the circles
Great distance... Near ...in front the room...
Who are you? No reply
They disappear into the tuberose equipped black and white photo of my father
Dad is smiling, I am senseless!
Tears are dropping from the eyes of our cat on the corridor.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
It seems like everybody around me has forgotten,
they're stuck on a thought again,
saying alot and whining more.
Preying on their own self-doubts,
they have so much,
yet see so little.
Can't they see that 64 inch TV,
or feel the beating of the jets in their hot tub ?
They measure their lives too much,
they have fallen into the "Great American Dream Sham"
as my friend "Chad Williams Lowther" would say !
Its a ruse,
so they can make changes in their lives which they normally wouldn't do,
because they lack the strength and insight,
so they get stuck in their minds.
and the damn kids are really suffering,
cause they don't have the latest video gizmo box.
Thoughtless over-reactions of self- abuse,
much like an addict who is never satisfied.
"The Great American Dream Sham" sucked them in,
macroni and cheese,
saturday morning cartoons and matinees.
All replaced by todays goals and desires,
which are masquerading as tired souls trying to find solice,
stuck in "the Great American Dream Sham"
and now saying all there is to say,
Hail, Hail to me
and all who are free,
all who go their own way
and all who see though it !
written on time’s page
with finite syllables of dust
he spelled my heritage
from earth to sky
along an umbilical line of faith
we fluttered from the lips of fingers
fully form for purpose
written on an invisible calculus
that bring monarchs where birth mark lingers
and salmons somersaulting sluice and streams
turtles, penguins, and herons white wings
netted in design with nested tabula rasa mind
I have an argument
against the beginning begotten from a bang
before atom or element
I have an argument against force and natural laws
at work without mass or embodiment
for embryonic gravity or forces weak or strong
I have an argument
that the singularity could not become more than fragment
of energy again if a single atom explode
its forces flocking away from fusion
for energy fission to explode
flimsy as spiders web
dethroning my majesty gulped
in primeval slime unlinked history from love
minimizing the particular time of our becoming on ships
that met the stagnant eyes of swampy thoughts … shuddering
the whip cracks louder than pain -
and on our black blistered backs … crumbling
soils in desertification threw some syllables skywards for mercy
starvation winds with sickle clouds of rain
they lie again ... leaving us without inheritance
for all our labors, lost, and grievance
what bang can buck the strain
and bring us broken souls to glory again?
It was what it was
A stunning photograph
in the end
in its composition
toilet of our existence
how you condemn it
it's how you deal with it
what you make of it
and in the end
even a shit house
serves its purpose
Authored by Chuck Keys
It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.
There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically
It wasn't here or there and it was.
With no distinction,
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.
It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.
In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.
The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."
Differences exist for differences,
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.
You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-
You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.
I pursued a butterfly through the woods.
It fluttered, just always beyond my reach.
The more I pursued, the more it teased.
Stalking it, like prey, it just fluttered away.
I found a moss covered log to rest,
Sitting in a serene, secluded spot.
A butterfly came ,sat upon the log.
I caught it in the palm of my hands.
It's wings became a rapid flutter,
Trying to escape my grasp.
I opened my hands , freeing it.
If we pursued things in life,
They become unattainable.
If we sit quietly and reflect,
they become attainable.
Chasing our dreams may be
as allusive as the butterfly.
Finding them as beautiful as the butterfly.
An inner earthquake rattles him again
as the fiery sun dips in the horizon
Can he too, hide his halo as such?
Closing his eyes as he folds in his wings,
wishing he could take it off
He trembles...must he embrace darkness to know of love?
Sun breaks over the mountain range,
her obsidian skin absorbing the light.
If her body is like a canvas of night,
could she reach within herself,
beyond the horns and hooves
and find her own hidden sunrise, deep inside?
The darkness is more reassuring
than he could have ever imagined-
something to truly weigh his goodness against,
in a finely-tuned balancing act.
And as the stars can help guide a lost soul,
he too possesses a true north within.
Oddly enough, she welcomes the radiance,
such a stark contrast to what she has been used to-
rays drip into her like ink diffuses in water,
a momentary burst of chaotic brilliance,
followed by an even stillness.
She cannot escape it, becoming a part of her.
The rooster crows for the third time,
so he opens his eyes to this daybreak,
emerald mountains shimmering in the morning light.
Through abysmal depths, he arises and now realizes
Darkness comes as the light falls, it is inevitable...
yet Light also takes over that darkness.
With the thickening dusk,
clouds turn into amethyst ribbons.
The day's warmth thawed a part of her
that was kept frozen and dead for eons.
Now, she would do everything in her power
to keep it pulsing--to keep it alive.
Upon watching them, sheer fascination takes over....
even though these two are on different paths,
they had both achieved a similar transformation,
as if neither was an agent for one side, or the other.
Not any longer.
And how their auras shone
....in perfect equilibrium.
*nikko palmario wrote stanzas: 1, 4, 5
I(Chris D. Aechtner)wrote stanzas: 2, 3, 6
We both wrote stanza #7
Opposites: Angels and Daemons/Sunrise and Sunset
A true poet knows
What is the pain of another poet!
Poem-writers don't understand the gravity.
They make a noise.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
(The poem is dedicated to the honorable administrators of Poetry Soup)
Sunshine Eats Its Armor
Night is an old fish
deep in a dark sea
racing ever upward,
emerging into light
slow to eat more
yet steady as she goes
ever changing its tails,
seeking life anew
a future never known,
breaking against all
speeding into a mist
longed for by many,
desires on every list
Night is a new fish
racing down to flee
sunshine eats its armor
deep, dark it wants to be
Robert J. Lindley
note: A little free verse tonight. Even as I try, poetic rhyme still sneaks in..
like a dog chasing a juicy bone..lol
Lines Life and our Faith in God
Is it possible to divide lines?
Which are of numerous types and kinds,
Like life, which always appear in different,
Forms, colors, shapes and types.
But when all these types and kind of lines disappears,
Covering the sheet of darkness,
What is left is only a tiny dot,
Which has no end and has no beginning.
From a tiny dot only life and every thing began one day,
And in a tiny dot every thing would vanish one day,
Leaving no lines of any kind bold or thin,
On the sands of time,
What would ultimately be left, as the last impression,
Would only be a tiny dot, much smaller than the rolling tears of eyes.
The Universe also started from a dot,
Even all universes and galaxies, stars and planets,
Started from a dot created by God,
And every thing ultimately would vanish,
One day in the darkness of a dot, like black hole,
About which we almost know nothing,
Except that every thing including the earth, planets, stars,
Even our body and mind and its high rising aims and ambitions
Would ultimately get lost in the magnetic darkness of the
Black hole, which is nothing but another form of a dot.
The creative and destructive power of the dot,
Is right before us in the form of a computer,
Which builds, learns and teaches every thing,
Starting and ending from tiny tiny dots,
And places before us humans and nature,
Animals and creatures, in their true forms, except
They do not breathe, love and hate like humans.
But humans are close to create a new dot,
Tomorrow it would breathe and talk,
It would think and walk and may also love and hate
And may be, it would start creating,
New types of humans and may start thinking himself one day,
As our new Creator or a new God.
I pondered, wondered and imagined,
What would happen, when this new God,
Would have a small amount of some power in his hand
And may become a new God for those,
Who do not believe in our faith and in our Almighty God,
As even a small amount of the power of creation and destruction,
May blind the weak humans to start thinking himself as the new God.
In such a situation, all lines of all types may disappear
For ever from us, which has so far,
Saved us from the total disappearance of our existence,
And has brought up like a child in every religion and faith,
So that we may flourish and bloom like his Nature
And may adore Him as,
Our faith or God or as our strong and bold Dot,
Which always loves us a lot.
Kanpur India 13th June 2006
I put on your shoes
Tried to walk a mile
Sadly they were way to tight
I felt an old nail digging into my soul
I tried loosening the laces
However the knots were way too tight
Pain coursed through my body with each step
I walked through a puddle
Water poured through the holes
I became chilled to the bone
I stared at my sore feet
These had been lovely shoes at one time
Shining with such possibility
Now they have been scuffed
Walked through the mud
Left out in the cold
The protection they offered
Has long gone away
So I wonder
Is it not time
For a new pair of shoes
Weak, weary and thirsty
from turning the other cheek,
I knowingly drink from a well
made virulent by his animosity;
a hatred spawned by insecurities.
My blood turns venomous,
seeps into my pen --
then commences a purging
in hope of not corroding from within.
With veins cleansed of his bane,
I witness ink evaporate,
and the well is replenished
by clouds unleashing acid rain.
As the epidemic spreads through town,
I fold the blade in a septic forge
while chanting the cliche
about what happens to those
who choose to wield the sword.
April 5th, 2014
Are you educated?
Have you injured heart?
Have you purified brain?
Do you believe in truth?
Are you alone?
Do you seek problematic truth, solvable truth, real magic?
Are you a secular person?
Do you believe in democracy?
If your answers are YES...
You have poetic mind.
You are the reader of poetry.
You are the real minority in the world.
The earth is moving.
It is proved that new history is created by the minorities.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
-a request by Mam Aiyah
You as a man can fill up this world
With the love of your heart,
Let them flow into your veins
As the oxygen of your spirit
Goes into the lungs of your kindness
You as a man can share the thoughts of your brain,
Even though your memory is not that enough to complete the story
Let your axon abound and connect to the spinal cord of your dreams
You as a man can smile with your lips
Let there be a good quotes for every word
Of your mouth as they slip,
Swallow all the sorrows,
Cut the sadness of your teeth, make them fly away
You as a man can show your eyes with happiness,
Mix this with inspirations
As they blink in with visionaries
You as a man can smell the fragrance of nice posture
Strain the bad from good using your cilia,
As your thumb and index made it concrete
And threw them at a distance
You as a man can hear solutions,
Can fight all the negative pictures
With your muscles in your skeleton,
You can build a problem killer device
Energy is your emotions,
You as a man can face all of your knotty points
You can hold the sky,
As your feet stay on the ground…
Because you as a MAN,
Is H U M A N…
King Vlad is anything but Democracy’s man of the hour.
Rather, à coup sûr, he’s really Stalin’s nasty little boy
who ironically parades "svoboda" and "glasnost" like
he really means them—actually he means them not.
King Vlad’s political traditions and pronouncements
are well-known among those who are sadly aware
of his tapestry of treachery and deceit—oh so slovenly woven
for all to see, just like some of his fellow-gangster favorites:
Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, and Andropov.
King Vlad is anything but a real world leader . . .
His "Kind" are an open book for all to see and understand
what they are and what they mean for all who strive
for openness, decency, and real compassion in the
twenty-first century world order.
King Vlad—just like his Dracula name sake,
is a man without a soul, without a conscience,
who shall never shudder, wince or cry
at the piercing death rattle of a Kalashnikov.
King Vlad is truly no friend of Democracy,
sounding even at times not unlike Hitler;
he’s a demon leader with innocent blood on his hands,
always quick with the old Soviet reply:
Lie . . . Deny . . . Accuse . . . Reject . . . Criticize . . .
all tools of this redoubtable master of prevarication.
King Vlad should know that the Heavenly Souls
of flight MH17 know the "bitter truth," gorkaya pravda,
surrounding his lies, treachery, and deceit—all pejorative
attributes to a man with the mask of a real monster who
had the very best Soviet teachers.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . .
How do you like your nasty little boy now???
He’s right up your alley, right???
“Putin” has five letters just like “Devil.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (August 9, 2014)
The grasshopper left the corn
For the dawn of the baobab tree
The elders brought flowers
For the floor of the ages past
And the door of ages to come
Grasshopper's heart stridulated
In awe. Its mandibles move
To shred its doubt in questions.
The elders stood silent
Before the open palm spooning
The eyes for a taste of wisdom:
"Patience," said the elders.
The elders ears buzzed
With the sounds of futile wings
Longing for the flight of freedom
"Grow your conscience," spoke
The elders in the morning smoke
Of dew where the heart
Of flora and fauna is burning.
And I was left nothing there
But corn blades bitten bare
To the ground, and a path
Through the desert sands of wrath
That beckons me to where
I will sit in the elders' chair
Weaving syllables out of air
And searching for reason
Beside the stillness of the heart.
I am the recycled question
Waiting for answer in a flower's
Bed sown with eyes of treason.
As our world spins into this blatant madness
Family units like dead leaves, fading fast!
Our children lost, good values tossed
Idols abound, keeps us in a choke!
Excesses, extreme shape our lives
The Golden Rule, now a corny joke!
A simple guide to can heal our earth-disregarded
Yet, in spite of all these,
God will have the final say
When wars and storms sweep across our earth
Leaders ignore the hour at hand
Perhaps, the last to stand as men
To right the wrongs of history past
And re enact laws to seal the cracks!
Potent winds arising, already on track
Remember, love for man and nature will heal this earth
Yes, I believe, in spite of all these,
My God will have the final say
So let the politicians, argue, fight and scheme
Let the liars, deceivers, play their games!”
Let death merchants chant their evil anthem
“It’s not a child, but a piece of flesh”!
While the years like pages torn from a book
All blowing away like dust in the wind
Gone forever beyond eternity's veil!
'Too simplistic', some claim, that love's the remedy
Yet, in spite of all these, I will fear no end, for
My God will have the final say!
When I am Colder,Older and then alone...
I will collect the sky on my own...
When the art has faded and the days then fade-
when everyone has gone away...
I may finally see what never was saw
.....ahhhhhhhhhhhhh............... the quiet sky
The unlit room which bares my end...shows the flashes of my pains my joys and sins.
This life has been a strange one since the curtains were drawn
These paper and plastic figures have clouded the dawn
I was once younger,foolish,and obsessed with truth
Now I am bitter,sour,dour faced with my heart under shoe
The children were all searching or lost in a crowd
All weeds in a garden...growing vile and foul
Though beauty was sold it never came true
Obsessions and vanity have traveled safe through
Materials and poison and everything lost
have been burned in the fires or lost in the frost
I stand face to mirror tearing my being apart
Winding thoughts of love,pain,god,and art
As the sun sets and the darkness grows
I too shall follow this pattern in tow
Death has a friendly hand and a pretty face
She has given me comfort as I leave this place
The wars have occurred,humanity's lost
Souls have been burnt in the fire or lost in the frost
Day was Life,Night is Death
And the latter has given counsel on my final steps
we are human tuning forks
vibrating to our own frequencies
searching for the rhythm and the pulse
of the universe
the peace of mind
we're looking to find
the occasional perfect moment
to prove we're not blind
so I accept my flaws
and their probable cause
because in the last place to dream
there can be no laws
This times, you would receive the two things from others.
Violence or grace.
Jealousy to your success,
And grace to your failure.
So, you should not be sad.
Survival is meaningless with grace.
You are the king or queen of love.
Try to distribute your love.
Don't want to see yourself as the beggar of love.
One day, future of mankind will be written with your love.
You will become history.
(The poem is dedicated to my favorite poet Charmaine Chircop.)
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
A man lives without literature
And an another man wears no garments
Both are naked in the world.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
The world is perfect –
That’s what everyone says.
The world has no faults –
That’s what everyone says.
Everyone fits in.
There will be no mismatched piece.”
That’s what everyone says, that’s what everyone believes.
Everyone except me.
I am not perfect;
I have an infinite number of faults.
I don’t belong;
I don’t fit in.
I am the mismatched piece.
Always on the fringe, never able to join in on the big picture;
Always on the outside looking in.
Still, “Everyone belongs;
Everyone fits in.
There will be no mismatched piece.” is what everyone continues to say,
And that’s what everyone believes.
Everyone except me.
No one notices, but I guess that’s because I’m always on the outside looking in.
Notes: This just came to me when I was thinking about the topic "propaganda" and I literally just penned this down in about 5-10 minutes. Sometimes I get on a high and this just happens. Same thing for my first submission, "Acceptance". I was so groggy at 6.50 in the morning but I had to write something out for some random Literature thingamajig and hence ensued the birth of "Acceptance". :)
Adrift in this vast,
empty sea. Silent,
save for the beckoning call
of distant gulls,
your only friend. And
the makeshift mast and sail is
by the dangling sway,
moss-green ribbons of waving kelp,
is the dark murk
of unknown depths.
Then the wind
arousing your sail and
it swells into life
and draws you towards home.