Long Etchings Poems
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Etchings upon my heart, so profound in time
These hues, colored so bright, bringing out an array of light
This love, in healing softened my existence and allowed me to trust
Yet sad, as we parted for the differences were evident and pained;
pained by the physical was he, as I would watch him sleep
curled up in a fetal, his hidden small frame
Today, no evidence of the cancer, and I thank God for the blessings!
I am not selfish, as he moved on to passionately live
For he needed the things in which I could never provide
Someone once said to me that they had a normal life
and it might be a good thing to try
Yet I find my travels amazing and the people I meet daily in life
I smiled gently, as I refrained my opinions publically
leaving them pacified that yet somehow,
there was a bit of encouragement that they had left me
For in this world filled with filth, money and greed among things
It is something I've always refused to conform to really
Sometimes I wonder about him, as I sleep on this life's pillow made of concrete
For I know many struggles, yet I know the Lord is showing me
The easy way is not always the best but the path less traveled
enriches the spirit
At times my flesh reeks of the sinful spoils, that I cannot deny..
Some look upon the stars and ponder great loves gone by
Some think that true love will just fall out of the clear, blue sky!
I say to you now, love is a verb, indeed, I know this to be so
and sometimes after the valleys, our rotten fleshly ways
I awake in the darkness, at dusk, awaiting the dawn to arrive
In the silence, the wind caresses my skin and I remember a different time
and I breathe in deeply to keep the moment that soon I will have to exhale,
with a somber farewell, as my heart hopes for another moment in time,
lest I am left with the depth in my soul to carry of loves tragic goodbye
So, these lessons in life are sometimes blessings in disguise
I know not, why God shows us the things he does each day
I find peace, though I am much different than most, I know
One day the Gallo may be requested for me,
and my more than average, unconventional ways
I merely ask for one thing,
Please do not greet me with pity, along my passing way
~Someone said to me once, they had a normal life and it might be a good thing to try~
To every dollar there are 'one hundred cents' in Britian its
The same..Yet the reckoning is in pence.' Meanwhile i
Pound..' On the gate of reason.' At least thats the name it bears.' Here in this ' land of fluid thinkers?' Till my knuckles
Bones show bare.' There is no sense!! In the current world; so unfair..
This is orchestrated chaos.' And i get plenty of words' also
Visions so i can't sleep well.' His voice says..You must reach
Them' no time for a spell.' Apart from satans that thought
I answer.' Is that wrong? Am I back answering? Oh God
The whole world seems wrong.' Its all a test? I get that
Part! outward vision.' Versus spiritual realitys.' Its a start.!!
Was that my thought?? Or Gods reply.?? Oh such a tough
Call.' I stand back a lot mentally.' At this gate to spy.' With
Its bold looking signs 'full of colour' and those scripts' words saying welcome.' And equality.' Here we value reason.' These cant be quips.' And i see photos of people.'
And many other things images.' And mottos enough to get
Hearts to skip.' And slowly as I batter and call untill i'm horse
I realise somethings missing! Where is the key? But of
Course!! Then i hear measured footsteps.' A figure draws
Near.!! Covered in a darkness or a cloak? Do I feel a fear??
To late!! Its right upon me a lamp essays forth and the
Radience owerwhelms.' Also appears now a dove' yes of course'
Its a test comes my answer.' And this door I well know.' Yet
Its one of 'many.' Of billions and to them i ever go.' What
Test does not test one.? I pose this to you.' I was tested as
No other.' And I walked on for you..And for any who'll hear
Me.? Thats the choice thats all part.' Its vision versus reason its the spirit soul and heart.' He lifted up the lantern
And we walked back closer to the door He illuminated darker etchings i had never seen before? and in the dust at
The bottom there lay drops of blood, as He knelt down i
Glimpsed His crown' His hand.. And He pointed His finger I
Felt pure Love.' And then He started writing in the blood
Upon the dirt.' I negated sin to call them in.' Stop complaining (there is no easy work!)
Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth... Ecclesiastes 12:1 KJV
Once, there was an artist, who would paint the Savior’s face,
Portraying His great splendor and benevolent grace.
The artist found a model with facial features fair,
And touched his brush to canvass, painting the Lord with care.
His eyes with compassion and his face with love,
Glowed with radiance, lighted from above.
Then for years, the artist was applauded for his art,
And he thought how love binds together, but sin pulls apart.
He’d paint a second portrait, to also share the wall,
Contrasting our need for Jesus, without whom we fall.
Searching in back alleys, and barrooms on skid row,
He finally found a vagrant, the lowest of the low,
With eyes like road maps of red jagged lines,
And a face laced with etchings, seamed with tracks of time.
He would pose for the artist, so they agreed upon a fee,
Enough for a bottle, and another drinking spree.
But when he saw the Savior, framed there on the wall,
He fell upon his knees, and began to bawl.
With his shoulders shaking, his eyes showing pain,
He said, amidst his sobbing, “I have lived so vain.
“When I saw Christ’s portrait, all at once I felt faint.”
“Come on!” said the artist, “Stop sobbing so I can paint.”
“I can’t pose for you, Mister! It just wouldn’t be right.
For I carry a secret that haunts me day and night.”
“Forget it,” said the artist, “and stand up like a man,
Let’s get on with this painting, and do what we began.”
“No,” replied the vagrant, “But I must tell you the truth,
It was me who posed for Christ’s picture, when I was but a youth!”
“Wait a minute,” said the artist, “this cannot be.
That man portrayed innocence, health, and purity.”
“Yes,” replied the vagrant, “but that was way back then.
Later I lived a loathsome life, full of wretched sin.
“I made bad decisions, and now I clearly see.
Satan promised happiness, but he lied to me.
Here I stand unworthy, with tears upon my face,
While in the Savior’s eyes I see amazing grace.”
Live your life I such a way that Jesus can be seen in you.
Winter has stolen the night,
A world I have always known,
is lost in a blanket of snow, ....
with recognition adrift, and thrown
tossed away in the endless white
I gaze over landscapes, whitewashed in the moonlight
Strange bittersweet etchings of silver starlight
Trees reaching high, with wild naked limbs,
Each branch empty handed, their twigs opened wide
grasping for snow flakes...or something to find
Something familiar, that's been left behind
Drifts growing higher, while icicles glimmer
distorting the mirrors of stars from the night
I know that the moon is hiding, somewhere,
caught in the winter's snow of sleep
Bemused are the clouds while obscuring the light,
disguising the image we once knew at sight
My world flickers dim, bleaching the ground,
Taking my breath, until all words are gone
I cannot recall, I cannot rewind, all the old music that I've known so well
I strain to hear where summer dwelled, too thin to be recalled
Where all the autumn leaves once fell
Where seasons green wore flowered hills
They must disappear, with each thing we have known,
Bleached by the moon, until they are pale
Stars then will spin, and seasons will dim
But, then all the reasons for believing begins ....
Winter has stolen the night, tonight, and the world I've always known
is
l
o
s
t
.... in the sparkling snow, adrift in the timeless wind.
_______________________________________________________
Written for contest: A Winter Poem
Judged 12/4/16
Resubmitted for Contest: 2/6/17
Form G or N/A
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Scars, like lace etchings, a pattern
Rippling indentations against porcelain skin,
What is that? I ask her, never quite
So humble as my heart when she pulls her arm
Away, like a secret not ready to be opened,
An ache not quite ready to be known
By anyone who might criticize or judge,
Anyone who might see the decorative design,
The shape of clever lines, so foolishly sketched,
Carved into delicate flesh with who could know…
Whatever tools she must have used, a knife –
Most likely a knife, yet it could have been something
Smoother, like a razor blade… sharp and willing
Against the tenderest flesh, the feeling bringing
Release from a mind, unbending – a mind, pleading
For the relief.
The act of cutting bringing respite from the pain,
The heartaches with their own stealthy blades,
Cutting into the soft flesh of a heart, like stilettos
Puncture the black earth, leaving hasty wounds,
The bleeding earth never promises to settle, healing
From the rupture the way weeping flesh, bleeds
As she blinks back the tears…
Seeing only the liberation, the freedom that comes
From slicing through the surface of her skin,
Exposing the inner demons that breathe easier
When the wound has exposed her anguish,
Leaving marks for the world to see, indications
For you and me – inscriptions beckoning, whispering
Into the silent night, erasing the throbbing of emotions,
Washing away the sensitivity with the subtle hint
Pain bleeding out its answers through the gash,
A laceration, filled with feelings that won’t last –
Feelings who sing of darkness and doubt,
Feelings who are mysteries of the fragile heart,
The heart who will reconcile, one day it will mend
only…
Will it still feel? Will this cutter ever genuinely heal?
Grace answers this with a resolve that feels like
Yes, etched into her flesh… Yes, God can reconcile
The only scars written on her flesh as her heart
Is returned to its best… with Him beside her,
There is the promise that she’ll be a survivor!
On the cold harden stone carvings names remain,
Charcoal etchings sketching’s, rubbing’s of forgotten history,
Textured rows of this human bone yard called a cemetery.
Rough carved gray monuments to life’s fragileness,
Isolation chambers of remembrance lie hidden beneath
This earthen soil, as for-get-me=knots floral arrangements
Garnish these graves of emotional attachments.
Fossilized vessels of mankind’s historical legacy,
Layers of preservation evidence that we existed,
Satisfied and blessed time capsules for the future,
Lie within these human skeletonized bone fields,
For later discovery to investigate.
As thin as the paper lain against these stones
Of textured graving, are the vials between
Us and our extinction, life is a fleeting gift
To be celebrated not thrown away ever so lightly.
I’ll kick against the tides of life, striving to
Thrive and survive, for I’m a branch of extension,
Spiritual Connected to the tree of humanity,
And my roots have grown in the richness of
Traditions roots of mine ancestors, thus
One stone downwards from thy kindred.
Ever rocking is the head stone of the ages,
It sways with the endurable chiming rhythm
Of the timeless sands, flowing through the
Hourglass of our global atmosphere.
Walking amongst these bricks of stood,
As idle soldiers at the ready for discoveries,
Shovel blades, I ponder the thoughts that
They may evoke in the future world of
Tomorrow.
Oh in the harvesting of the dinosaurs leavenings,
We’ve written our own biography’s sinnario,
One day to be exposed to the light of infinity,
For no single entity lasts forever, nor species
Shine beyond extinctions mighty wrath.
After all is it not true that the key to understand
The future, is to unlock the past.
On the cold harden stone carvings names remain,
Charcoal etchings sketching’s, rubbing’s of forgotten history,
Textured rows of this human bone yard called a cemetery.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
October 30th, 1863
Halloween eve, before the clock turned the day- almost midnight.
The moon just right, full, and nearly hidden behind a thin layer of dark grey cloud. A perfect day for a walk through the cemetery, I thought. Minding my own business, keeping quietly sound, I walked gingerly around all the burial sites reading the etchings inscribed in the stone by the survived loved ones. Wilfred White- 1862-1882 "Here he lay- R.I.P." is all it read. Another-
Dorothy White- 1865-1882 rests beside her brother.
Behind them- two stone nameplates embedded in the ivy-covered dirt. Belonging to- Wilfred White Sr. and beloved wife Emily.
Suddenly, a voice...I heard. The sound of shoveling soon began to echo causing my knees to shake uncontrollably with every scooping sound. A screeching sound that of a chalkboard rose the hairs behind my neck. With the clouds, now completely gone, and the sky even darker, something very scary almost made my eyeballs pop out of their sockets. The moon and stars completely faded out of sight and the sky was pitch black. The shoveling continued and the screeching got louder. My curiosity could bear no more, I had to walk through and around the graves to get to the corner of the yard where the old beat-up cottage sleeps. That is where I heard the noises come from. As I got closer, I saw an old man with a shovel in his hand. Through the filfthy window of the creepy looking cottage, I saw two children playing tic-tac-toe on a chalkboard. Then, out of nowhere, a humped black cat inched slowly towards me, with every step he took did I become more terrified. And I thought It was a perfect night for a walk through the graveyard.
I was wrong. In fact, I was dead wrong.
So, I did the only thing l could do...
I disappeared and went back to rest again...
beneath the stone dated 1862-1882
~The ghost of Wilfred White
A Ghost Story Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Angela Tune
1/8/2022
The sugar maple and the oak hold tight their leaves,
barely green, yellow tinged lines sway in the breeze.
The plum glows in a deep dark purple dance
feathered soft and small along the branch.
Another oak stands a mix yellow orange peach
with etchings red crimson pink burns out of reach.
Standing alone and in between the naked eye
mere skeletons remain touching a clouded sky.
Autumn holds true to reputation
producing a multitude cacophony of colors, dark unseen
ominous lightly draped in emerald greens.
The first and quickly mid November hush
comes the fall and holiday rush.
Wind still calm yet wildly ready
as blinding sun beats down hot and steady.
Songbirds seem to no longer sing stray cry coos
rising on the breeze as they seek shelter and others bid adieu.
The weather soon to change
to a chilling wind and rain.
Holidays break the lull of comforting fires
with harried shopper rushing of want and desire.
As quickly as it comes, just steps behind a party scene
of costumed revelry and gatherings, the seasons pass to dreams.
Thanksgiving turkeys with cranberry sauce, potatoes and stuffing
waft the air as frosted glasses rise eyeing pie and whipped fluffing.
Families toast and taste the holidays,
with the memorable pictures taken holding out for Christmas plays.
The together that solidifies relations of the crew
of grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, cousins too.
Children yelling, crying, playing games to a hullabaloo of cheer
but makes parents glad it comes once a year.
The gathering of faces and acquaintance celebrations
folds a memory happening just a little more patient.
That laughter and joy so endeared in time,
a right of passage lost to happiness, tears and wine,
missed yet fondly remembered
as time passes November into December.
Chapter One
Boy into the West
Dawn upon my cloak
Urged and so converged were the guns
Seeding myself with the rest
I broke in the eye of the Sun
Settling my mind on the heartless rapist. Time
Rasterize the faces
So thumb through the annals
Purged and so emerged fleshy etchings of this child
Breast wheels churn uncertainly
Moistened embers dance to the deafening drum
Tidal ducts offer piquant waters of the Pacific coffer
I arrive on the sands
Chapter Two
Hole in the Wall
Deserted in this mind
Hover in and now behind
Stare blank up through the ceiling stucco
Gathering in the stench of ghastly breath of wine
The New Year clothes itself topside
Unfashionable walls crush youthful spirit I drink alone, until morning
Demons of mine in lethargy
Gnawed and sluggish slivers bond my illness
Horizons of hues of shapes the girl knowing
Waking sweat cools slyly treats itself to my tongue
Warmth of girl takes my breath save the end of I prepare
God, are you there?
Chapter Three
Erosion
All in the deflection
Though his reflection isn't mine
Blood in kind of brotherly loving spiteful me
We close our doors of aid restraining love I have
For angry boys reject the angry drudge
Slave to a toilsome loving grudge
It is raining erosion
Blinding contortion
Why in my hands I can't see you yet
My rock there I can’t see her stand
These matters wash away too comfortably
I the destined rock
To erode on as grain of sand
Chapter Four
Facing the Crow
Give to the death
Long confronting his road
Gurge open those words she once clung on
Hung from the rope he dove to the end
I die decay per diem death
Metaling her heart on his mindless last breath
I survive only by his hand...
T.R.Sevrens
their park, their bench
was serenely quiet
leaves playfully danced
as pigeons quickly took flight.
he caressed the colourful scarf
she had knitted with love and care
he wept tears of remembrance;
her smile, her joy, the scent of her hair.
a chilly breeze made him shiver
he held tightly his scarf,
wrapped it around his lips
he inhaled deeply; breathing her in.
with steaming cups of coffee
a paper bag of gooey cinnamon buns
they had laid out the sunday crosswords
debated and laughed; they were truly one.
tummies full, cheeks a rosy glow
she lay her head on his lap
gazed into his clear blue eyes,
he kissed her forehead, held softly her hand.
this was their time, their park, their bench
he beamed recalling, the day she chose him.
she raced him uphill to the gorgeous oak tree,
they rolled down the hill; laughing aloud.
he rose from their bench,
lured by the gorgeous oak tree
fought back tears, as he slid down the trunk,
knees to his chest; fingers wrapped in his scarf.
he read what they etched only a few days ago,
hers read "you are my oak, forever you are my love"
his read "my scarf is your heart; you are my soul"
he kissed the etchings; cheeks streaming tears.
glancing down at their bench he froze, watching;
a young couple with steaming cups of coffee
gooey cinnamon buns peeking through a paper bag,
he rolled down the hill; his scarf,her spirt,in hand.
pulling carefully a piece of fringe from his scarf
he carefully placed it in the young man's hand
smiling, he watched them hold one another close;
in their park, on their bench,now; a new love bloomed
she forever lives in him, their park, their bench
the etchings, her laughter, the love in her eyes.
his scarf, her soul; eternally they are entwined.