I said I couldn’t write
for I am an empty pen,
my ink wasted
on letters no one will read.
Torn, crumpled,
fed to the black hole
of a trash can.
Now I write of silence
Etching words into wood
For I have broken my vow with the papers
It isn’t determination,
nor delusion
just a moment,
a fragment that insists on staying.
And still, I write
not with ink,
but with the sharp edge
of a pen
long drained of stain.
There was a chill in the Fall night_
as I walked about my neighborhood,
and up above the full moon was an orange ball,
in the ink black sky watching me.
And sparkling here and there, everywhere were stars,
twinkling like precious little diamonds.
Give yourself to slumber
under ink black clouds.
Moon below the horizon,
light for when it’s dark.
Lie in peaceful presence.
Silhouette of the trees
mythologies reverberate
of songs, put us to sleep.
Dream of all the beings,
our kin gathered around,
flames flicker in shadows
mysteries of living found.
Maybe someday you’ll join us
under the sky’s moonlight.
Stories, song and dancing
long into the warm night.
I hope someday you’ll join us
maybe for just one tale.
World quiet from the fighting
a chance to just exhale.
A cold full moon greets baby Mars
Ink black sky shot through with diamond stars
A crystal wrap cloaks acres down
Ethereal light floods all around
Golden dear cross the sky line
To pull Santa’s slay one more time
An owl hoots out his mournful song
Christmas is coming it won’t be long
Acres Down, 7th December 2022
"Mere echoes of changing seasons passed, Mother Nature doesn't give it a second chance or through as the axis shifts."
quote by poet
Mother Nature's quenching heartbeat,
Sipping the wavering unfurl dawn sun.
It teases yellow, and green loveliness
Of her rich breast, ripple dress endowment.
Sweet scented fragrance embracing of spring.
Bees dart, nuzzle among open vernal parasol blooms.
Iridescent organza rotates, awaiting playful feet,
Pollen dress laden in ambrosia, a golden dream.
Sun blending amber and lemon hues of summer
Rays of warmth, flicker through waves of clouds.
Indigo bunting perch on a wild sunflower
Amid a brilliant and pleasant rising strawberry moon.
Autumnal tint in the vast radiant cool evening sky.
The rustling crunch of scarlet and golden leaves that fall.
Living benevolent trees with generating slumber.
Chill wraith perigean full moon, fades into the ink-black heaven.
Mother nature slowly does sleep beneath cold snow.
Winter's breath blows when flowers are scarce.
Birds migrate, bees huddle together to keep warm.
Darkness slowly creeps amid shivering twilight.
scorching blood red orb
clouds on silken mirror gleam
noonday cosmic flare
ink black thunder growls, monsoon
squall from volatile blue sky
NB Red orb is a synonym for the sun.
Date posted ; July 9th 2022
I love traveling the world in the comfort of my bed at my own home,
Through pages,
Ink black and white,
Sound of turning pages,
As I age deep into characters,
I know now I am the character
Choosing my favorite
Because here I have a choice.
I learn about pain as they fall and fail
I share a tear as they die
Now I realise that
Pain sometimes is a matter of our own choices,
But with time I realise it wasn't just a story
As I relate too deep with it.
I just love living in the thoughts of shelves,
Feeling myself.
Exactly what I abhor to adore.
I love how every page is different from another
But same book, isn't that odd?
Nope, it's a lesson learnt
That in this life
Years, day, time may be the same
But different experiences we experiencing
So I keep on reading
And I keep on learning this life through every page I turn
#thelivingpoet
that pause a tears tumbling
or words that gods would rip from reality
for none to repeat
words that crumble
under winds slip
Yet i could write of eyeless Yeti's
words that unfurl like a water dipped petal
words of fear
like a shadowed figures
inhuman smile
greeting from the top of the stairs
words planely plain
i always sit at the back of the plane
ever heard of one reversing into a mountain
with a whip of my wrist turn sword
into words
Words that peer from beneath
tear stained fingertips
as another blow lands next to my ear
S
--w
-a
n
---n
--i
---n----------n-----k----n
--g and s-----a-----i-----g into lines
as the mist just misses
the ink black still
before the grey and the numb
give birth to the static
Sky Beings
Present since the day of creation,
They define the firmament
Populating the night sight sky
In ever changing relationships
As Galileo’s sphere revolves on it axis
Only to reappear for the same journey each night.
The focus of fascination and the focus of anthropomorphism
They populate Native American myths and legends
Recited around the dancing, leaping fires as they send their sparks skyward
In the otherwise ink black night.
The above people, sky beings,
Were venerated in those stories which draw us
Both inward and outward to the wonder suspended above.
One can only imagine and try to recreate the scene, the stories of
“How fisher went to the sky land” (Ojibwe)
“The quillwork girl and her seven brothers” (Cheyenne)
“They that case after the bear” (Fox)
“Women who married star husbands” (Chippewa)
“How Spirit dog made the milky way”.
These among the others,
Give breath and wonder and magic in the silent night darkness
To the sky beings above.
Hobgoblin in the gutter under canopy of midnight,
magic brew of muti without rein.
Shadow figure torchon, darting half-light dare.
Spine chilling droplets wobble slowly down drains,
rusty copper mouthwash at the edge of jagged chutes.
Eerie urban soundscapes frame,
a sneeze or smothered cough.
Drone of vagrant motors probe, the flyby ink-black abyss.
Youthful laughter echoes over back streets,
as nearby lamp posts cast their bloodshot rays.
Night owls chinwag over Onion Bhaji,
raucous babble buried in a saffron whiff.
Strains of ragtime jazz and sleek arpeggios,
shrine or vinyl monument ahoy.
Hobo’s lonely whistle on an empty pier.
Urban jungle cast-off ghostly lurch,/
Burakumin patsy in high dudgeon.
Spooky timelines relish every moment of suspense,
swallowing the hush with ghoulish glee.
Quasimodo bell ring vaults a broomstick,
setter of alarm and wanton panic.
City wall clock twiddles on its hourly thumb,
scene plotter’s endless play denouement,
wee small hour dialogue without a script,
waiting for the dawn to take it’s baton.
Snakelike writhing twisting clenching soul pain.
Shooting needles crystal shards sharp and fine
Blame shame there is no gain along this vein
Mundane challenge gives no freedom to chime.
Music slowing, life blind with mist and fogs
brain seize, monochrome visions seep inside.
Lone in self, connection broken, stops cogs.
Turning whirling synapses all now fried.
Far memories brighter than the now dark
reality, by far outshine day now.
Solace they give for the ink black down heart.
The climb up from the depth we know not how
Shining on and in our memories through.
Hale whole body laughing forever you.
30/1/2020
Aging like a fine wine (if I liked wine)
Narcissistically loving, proudly broken
Daughter of the Pryors, Moe and Vickie, soulmates
Lover of calm breezes running the first of 10 miles on a Sunday morning
Who feels invincible in that moment and defeated, small, and petty the next
Who fears for her children making their place in a brutal world
Who would like to see America from a motorhome, or Spain on foot
Resident of the heart, living in the soulfulness of early ink-black mornings
Stampeding and triumphant
1/29/19
Writing Challenge 2, Bio form
Dear Heart
crisp white uniform
like pure white ocean foam
his eyes navy blue
for he winked at the sea
his shoes polished squid-ink black
with superior shine
his medals proudly gleam
the Captain grins, wants to salute him
eagerly waits his turn
his fellow seaman — some like him
others hold the jealousy of Davy Jones Locker
but the women love him in droves
some with ulterior motives just to be a Navy wife
swooping necklines, netted stockings
long blond silky hair accost his senses
but on the long watches he serves her
the one he loves best — his country
so he trims his neckline, sharpens
the lines of his tailored pants
and protects the deck
day and night
Naked Subjugation
Last night I wandered past your total disregard
And walked forlorn
Stark insecurity amplified
Still I walked , my usual forbearance uncomplied
Upon furthermost the distance between us elongated
The sustenance of forgotten stores inside me generated
I was venerated - nay subjugated
Of these morsels congregated
And fed me through those ink-black nights
In dew fall of the quiet
Inside unheard the rebel riots
As my breath became a billion
As my fears that I embraced
Loosed themselves and fearing fled
Melting in the murky bellows
Did I find my standing there...
Naked but for meekness laced
Forgotten was my fear
I needs you did not anymore
Nor your disregard this doggone day
Not dejected as before
Only sin has me surrounded
And soon encircled disappears, decays
Unclothed in limped insignificance
Nothing said ..
So still your body lies
Copyright © Jannie Breedt | Year Posted 2017
You rightly, quite politely, criticise
my efforts at composing “pleiades”.
What’s rare about revilings such as these
is, blaming me for leaving out my “I”’s.
The reason isn’t tricky to surmise.
My arrogance supposes I, with ease,
can conjure (with unthinking expertise)
whatever I may please. Please don’t despise
my failure to peruse the contest rules,
for carelessness (the calling-card of fools)
is what possessed me. That, I can’t disguise.
Each time a fresh and feisty pair of eyes
lands on my folly, one more pride-cell dies.
Its silver magenta
is shimmering warm-white
in damson-dark center,
ink-black like summer night;
if clay turned inventor,
it might spawn this dawn-light.
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