I did not summon these thoughts—they arrived already breathing,
wrapped in the salty cloak of silence, like relics
rising from the forgotten graves of someone else's ruins,
where echoes dance like spirits in the twilight of forgetting.
They shape themselves in silence—carved by unseen hands,
hands that know my marrow better than my own soul,
molding clarity from the fragile bones of thought,
like a sculptor finding his masterpiece within the heart of stone.
Some come dressed in burning fire, others crawl slowly,
with moss grown over their silent mouths, whispering tales
from a world where time loses its shape in shadows,
and yet, I welcome them all, like a temple of forgetting.
My mind is not a womb, but a tomb struck by lightning,
each arch an unfamiliar memory, a dream lived by someone else,
each window a belief carved in ancestral dust,
where the wind whispers legends from a world before time.
And in the deepest chamber, beyond words, beyond light,
there is an unseen sculptor who still silently carves thoughts,
from the remnants of what I was, from the ashes of an old self,
creating forms from the shadow that stretches over my eternity.
Categories:
moss grown, fantasy,
Form: Free verse
"A dagger of pain, a tear of grief."
Quote by _Constance
I go to the forest where we once walked,
and stroll down the paths where we laughed and talked;
each time "to weep the tears that never learn" ...
in this place we loved my grief is unlocked !
Will always love you- but now my thoughts turn,
to remembering Mom ... oh, how I yearn;
the pages of life flutter in the breeze ...
I can look back but can never return !
I read the beloved names under the trees,
and weep my great grief- falling to my knees;
many, too many engraved names in stone ...
I come in Wintertime and my tears freeze !
I crying at night when I am alone,
and in my dreams your voices moan and groan;
for a thousand years and more I will mourn ...
will not let go- for my grief is moss-grown !
Categories:
moss grown, grief,
Form: Rubaiyat
Making it known in the twilight zone,
an unknown, error-prone player reached a milestone
using follicle stimulating hormone
to produce a phytohormone clone of Alicia Silvestone
honed from a fully grown breastbone and stray histones.
Above the wind blown ozone- a moss-grown millstone
the well known capstone of a milestone not foreknown.
Better known was Paula Poundstone
for taking growth hormone when fully grown
who could hold her own against the overblown overtone-
of reggaeton,
to win a starring role in Philosopher’s Stone,
You may think this poem is overblown
An alphabet kaliedophone.
A mining of words that are super unknown
And bemoan its pretentious overtone.
A poem that’s nothing but shadow and stone
Contrived to tickle your funny bone.
Categories:
moss grown, fantasy, word play,
Form: Free verse
Gazing into the heavy eyelids of the sun
In the sacred silence of the dusk
Through a route obscure and lonely
I walked on until reached before a grave yard
My thoughts curled round the forgotten tombs
Where the dead remain anonymous as dust,
And sleep dreamless through years,
Where wind whistles through heap of bones.
Here, Death sits on his imperial throne,
Mocking at the relics of human glory
Zealous with the task of clearing out the old,
To make way for the incoming ones
Marked by moss grown grave stones
Here each life is a volume closed down,
To be cast aside and eventually forgotten,
Or locked forever in the annals of time!
‘Round that colossal decay’, I stood sad
Thinking of Shelley’s Ozymandias!
__________________
~Placed Sixth~
June.28. 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile.5.Poetry Contest
Sponsor:Mark Toney
Categories:
moss grown, death, fate, funeral,
Form: Free verse
Where do all the Pooh sticks go, you lovingly selected,
dropped in the water, on their way? Then ran across the bridge
to witness how they fared, alone, without your guiding hand.
All now slither, out of sight, eager in the rippling stream;
dashing, tumbling, burbling to experiences; wondrous and new.
Wonderlust will end too soon for some; a moss-grown boulder,
old, cantankerous, will add some budding sticks to others
whose passage it has stalled among the rotting vegetation.
Others careen carefree past, carried aimless by the stream,
just going with the flow, attracting others in their wake.
A peppy school of sticks along with twigs and leaves, some trash,
washing wastefully along wherever water takes them.
Some will find their place; a home for butterfly, bug, or toad,
adding to a beaver's dam or a poke-stick for a child.
A purpose ascertained; a voyage happily at close.
Sticks don't always have a choice; it's where the river takes them.
But hopefully, a few will reach the sea; their journey's end,
and wash up happily, retired, on sun-soaked Spanish shores.
Categories:
moss grown, metaphor,
Form: Free verse
Three petals down, I feel moss-grown...
Nightcore is the tempestuous phrase,
She feels withdrawn, I reclose,
He indrawn his heart, I disclose...
Until this night is over,
All alone, I can't fight my fear,
Trapped in my anxiety, I battle the four walls,
Fragile piety, am a wrecked gall...
Snugged in my heart, infinitely a hold to.
Categories:
moss grown, grief, heartbroken, i love
Form: Free verse
We built a chinkless wall
Without blueprints at all.
We did not pause to think
About this wall of ours,
As stone by stone it rose
Above our tiptoed eyes.
Trash piled up on both sides
Of what our labor laid;
Yet, at least, a rose climbs,
Prideless,
Upon this moss-grown side.
Categories:
moss grown, hope, loss, lost love,
Form: Free verse
OLD FOLKS
Gone those elder-respecting days -
An ancient could well topple over
As uncouth youth speeds around him
The Walmart express departs
My God!
Look what’s been left behind –
A multitude of invisibility
A moss grown obsolete
Decrepitude on slow parade
Antediluvian yes
But stored with lost value
And sense of a valued protocol
What is thought of as 20s showmanship
Has for most these gaffers and hags
genuine sweetness
And selfless humble humanity
What is lost?
Lost is that hopeful neighborhood
Of togetherness –
The virgin feel of flesh
Only sensed in imagination
Those first daring touches
And a certain joy of discovery
Ingrained through early years of
Experiment and experience
Yes all this lost in wrinkles of course
But the spirit might be reviewed
If only now could take a look
Dave Austin – age 87
Categories:
moss grown, age,
Form: Free verse
God, all the time You are,
everywhere You,
You suffice all…
But I, with my wild stubbornness,
with hunter’s old scent,
look, in myself, for the lack-of-You:
I’d like to see –
in this body, this soul –
where You are not and what just does lack You,
as I am so sad
that, like a path of a cloudy pass,
am untrustworthy for my own folks…
I feel how,
from the moss-grown nothingness of the lack-of-You,
there radiates
the dead insect of my daydream
with its dusty wings…
From the threshold of the nonexistence
there glitter my great lacks-of-You…
Again, again, from thawed-out snow,
fresh grass covers greenly fields and mountains;
Again, again, from summertime,
white winter dwellings
are filled with yellow-breasted chicken…
O God, in vain You’re searched in skies –
You are my Earth,
my old Country Seat…
Countless times I have stepped on You
to cleanse myself…
Categories:
moss grown, life, old, old,
Form: Prose Poetry
A dry stone wall
of moss-grown granite
staggers,
lush undulating plains
swaggers,
fields ablaze with wildflowers
bows
at a curvaceous hollow
where a copper stream gurgles below.
Sheep fluff velvet meadows
mirror cotton clouds above.
Stooped,
they graze
on buttercup fields
Blotched blurs,
they climb
to higher ground
where
Lilting melodies
lace the trees
sweeping the air
with apple blossom
on a dove day afternoon
Written for Francine Roberts contest "Flowers" by Eiken Laan 27 January 2011.
Buttercup Fields
Categories:
moss grown, nature
Form: Free verse