I felt it break,
I saw the shards,
the frame hanging limply
in it's wake as it crashed down.
I never wanted anything but her,
so I kept the curtain open.
But now the glass shines, where it was
embedded deep inside my disembodied soul.
I try and try to pick up the pieces
but they cut at my skin.
I struggle through the pain
the glass still shines without her.
I can fix the shards
of the window
but there is nothing
left inside.
I could reach for the pieces
but all that would do is hide the tell-tale tracks
of a poisoned soul cut too deep,
to ever be whole.
The more I try
the more I scream.
That's the price
to ever love again.
Glass scattered
to the mist,
but that's what I get
for feeling this…
Inspired by Tears of The Dragon Poetry Contest of Robert James Liguori
A dragon defeated, I do not fly.
I hide away inside my cave all day.
Night’s blackness conceals me. That’s when I cry
nearby the shore – enough to turn sea gray.
My many tears have caused sea’s tide to rise.
Wings meant to soar lie limply on the ground.
Great are my own fears, which I despise.
I search for hope, but where can it be found?
Then I see you shining . . . beyond the shore.
A bright new hope you’ve made glimmer in me.
I’d always thought I’d sink to water’s floor
if I should try to fly above the sea.
But oh, sweet angel, be my strength and glow!
Wings raised, I’ll soar to you, my love to show.
Lazy Day on the Water
She rests on the blue green water while
we sit on her deck taking in the yellow sun.
To port a pod of sleek black dolphin
swim lazily by.
Her white sails sag limply
waiting for the slightest breeze.
The blue dome of the sky above us
lures us into a sense of serenity.
We are at peace.
POTD
How I wish I could have clutched
vignettes of remembrance
on this bench in a park;
the same wooden one
which cradled our afternoons,
feeding little birds
as slices of pang gripped my marrow--
The sharp sting of her farewell,
right on this spot
drowned time's kohl of fate---
that now, I hold the seat's arms limply,
if only to recall
how we kissed in the dark
exploring east, west of mouths--
my fingers messing her hair
nipping quick hours of rendezvous.
I forget not the windswept look
of her distant eyes... hours I have
delayed with my misgivings,
my absence wretchedly crossed ---
and upon my woman's leaving
I on this park every sordid night
kiss her only in my thoughts ---forgive.
It whispered
From afar its sutble tones lay
On a bed of acceptance
Pillows tossed away the heat
Competing against the harsh winter
Where grey found its way
And south was the compass point
A mane that once tested wind
Now lay among a barbers tread
Coin handed for less chore
As nods of reflection
Bows with the brow
And body limply rises from the chair
For age slips unnoticed
From behind an invisible cloak
Once a vibrant image
Where fear held no quarter
And dare danced free
Tears now weep in silence
Minds race through catalogues
Titled, where did you go?
Recalling a thousand memories
Of the good and the bad
As fingers navigate
A well worn face
Come back to me!
A desperate cry departs
But no-one listens
Another day goes by!
I was sitting.
My legs were crossed, that’s all I know.
They don’t ask what hurts.
They know.
They take my blood away,
And that’s not so bad.
At my house, all I could do was wander around, aimlessly.
Losing my phone, my patience, my everything.
There is noise, but I don’t move like I used to.
There are names being called, but it’s muffled.
They put a bracelet on me.
Then I knew.
But could only sit limply.
They gave me a glass of water.
That was nice of them.
It was the last nice thing I remember…
Before they said “good night.”
We hold hands as we walk through the woods
Rich with decay.
The leaves crunch beneath heavy bodies.
The smell of death follows us.
We walk slowly, savoring the day
For there is no use running.
Our hands fall limply by our sides.
What we once had in blooms is now rotting,
The bittersweet vines have choked the flowers we grew.
We are walking through this decaying forest,
Walking to a grave.
Hold my hand as we walk through this dead world,
As the book falls shut.
Give me a kiss before the fork in the river,
Whisper lies to me,
Say you’ll never leave.
Walk me through this forest of endings,
Then let me leave.
Like those last
luscious faintly
enfeebled breaths
bitterly breaking
through my
limply lifting lungs .
Fervently flooding
my tear filled
eyes. Tenderly
tottering into
those timidly
tight-lipped times .
Who wistfully
whispers
their coolly
cut cards of
kindred conversations.
Carefully kindling
their heart-crossed
corners of compassion.
It rained for 3 days,
drenching torrents plunged down
as if a dam had breached.
There was some local flooding
but by and large only minor damage
a lot of litter and flotsam though
‘sky wreckage’ some called it.
The butterfly house was swamped,
its netted walls were ripped ragged
by broken tree limbs,
the seams in the wooden roof
split apart and a wild,
wind-riding rain rode in.
Purple Admirals were beaten down
by the gusting blows,
then drowned.
Painted Ladies were murdered
their mangled decorative forms
no longer cosmetics.
Longwings no longer flew
but in death, swam limply
in the splashing puddles.
A disarray of broken wings
carpeted the deluged floor.
Somewhere in this caged house
sodden chrysalids sway upon fractured twigs;
eventually there will be fluttering wings,
but not here in this ruined shelter
were the air still drips wetly
onto unreceiving
and unmoving antennae.
Time passed away in the dark,
the bedside clock fell silent
it was never much of a talker.
Below the curtained window
snow had numbed the night,
ill at ease my body stretched
as if seeking a way out of its mind
a place it inhabits
when there is only one room,
to turn around in.
Did the clock
die on the tic or the toc?
These are the sort of questions
to struggle with when it's too early
to actually struggle.
Switched on the lamp -
the one in my head.
Accumulations of amputated dreams
wriggled back into the shadows.
I shake the clock
some residual moments
slipped limply through cold fingers.
When the light freezes,
when dawn breaks its brittle shell,
snow humps (so far unseen),
will resemble the many recumbent hours,
but of course there's no way
to measure those hours now.
It could be days
before the snow melts
or until eyes unstick themselves
from all this rumpled mess
of being.
I do not want to simply fall -
to limply slip down from a tree.
I need a purpose to live for.
No Humpty Dumpty on a wall
that splatters down to earth for ME.
Oh, life, there still must be some more!
Some more to do – yes, do it all!
And in the doing – feeling free.
Death, wait a while. I first must soar!
Jan. 2, 2023
(a verse of rhyme scheme with stanzas of abc/abc/abc)
All that matters is that you will no longer be in limbo.
As you are limply before a palace.
It is up to us to place you on their doorstep.
Just as you were placed on our doorstep-
When you were a kitten.
Beyond those doors, you can be noble still-
But you do not have to be strong.
Like you were for us.
Your old kingdom.
A facility he had not used
But about it already enthused:
A not funny challenging toilet,
Water needing like Pontus Pilate:
Just to climb it effusive pride bruised
And when one was through with it still mused
Twelve litres of water when not late:
What one might be right to tag Plain Fate
The wildest cats would towards its slouch,
The wildest man on it limply crouch;
Not a convenience you'd for it vouch,
Found faults in the nastiest language crouch.
Beware the leaves of Autumn as they flee
Undressing every limb of bush and tree
As we shiver in the cold that sets them free
And wonder, as the Pagans, what will be.
For frozen in the ground the sun dials lie
As high noon limply creeps across grey sky
The voices of their seers do still imply
The sun is gone and surely all shall die.
So as the fire burns within your hearth
And all you long for buried in this dearth
You call upon non-gods for all its worth
Pray that the sun returns to thaw the earth.
John G. Lawless
©9/29/2022
A briefly wrung-out sky
is blotched with clammy clouds.
A humid air clings to my chest.
Damp squirrels hang limply
from dripping branches.
Desultory birdsong mops
but not much.
I yearn for the cold slap of sea-spray,
chill cheeks and fresh lips
not this damp-dive-walking
through a moist miasma.
Maybe the day will shake itself free
of its mope?
Perhaps this drizzle will tip over
into a cresting surf of sunlight,
or anything that smacks of a
rolling ocean
that can dry-out, rinse and clean.
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