The wind is blowing softly like words spoken
in ancient temples built of stone, sharply hewn
from quarries dug in highland hills made barren
by creatures come to claim the woodland cedars,
for sacrifice and beauty they were chosen
to entrance us in the tapestry of weavers,
the goddesses of destiny and devotion
to the patterns of the silken threads, attuned~
the Fates decree, and who are we to question?
Listen to the wind as it swirls around decayed
headstones, hear it laughing like a ghost of yore,
or is it stirring trouble like a goblin crazed,
come to torment those awaiting somber tidings
of life once colored joyful, but now unglazed
by pale spectors and surly death's grim reapers,
and so the seasons tumble onward through decades,
dumb to pleasure, love or laughter, ever after
in a place where hopeless drudgery remains~
Listen to the wind now wailing winter's warning.
Peter came at half-past three,
Tapping sharply from an apple tree.
“Wendy, Michael, and John, too—
Come and fly; the stars want you.”
Out of the window, hand in hand,
The trio swept above the land.
Their mother's sobs fell away behind.
Another bedtime story she can't unwind.
In Neverland, the sky can't change.
The moon is weird, the sun is strange.
No one grows, and no one there cries—
Every ache for going home soon dies.
Boys and girls forget their names.
Their socks, friends and favorite games.
A mother’s hug, a father’s last song—
Memories dim when you stay too long.
Peter laughs and flies high in midair,
But something empty lingers there.
He doesn’t know what he has lost—
Never growing up, comes at a cost.
Wendy whispered, “We must go!".
"For I've lost my shadow.”
Peter waved and turned away—
Still chasing ghosts of yesterday.
So if you hear a tap-tap one night,
Find your window bathed in light,
Roll over, hide, and stay in bed—
Forget Neverland, sleep on instead.
It was nine degrees outside in April
In the chill of a dreary April day,
I find myself wandering through the dimness,
My eyes were straining in the absence of light.
As I approach the door, a sense of familiarity washes over me, pulling me back to a time of comfort and solace.
The thought of retreating to the inviting embrace of my warm bed beckons me like a gentle siren, contrasting sharply with the biting cold that surrounds me.
In this moment, I realize that in this vast expanse of uncertainty, there is only one clear path to follow—one that leads back to the refuge of my blankets and dreams.
I see the horizon is not straight.
It curves down at its ends,
keeping the future pending,
just out of reach,
beyond the cliff's edge.
It bends sharply, like water does.
It refracts the line of expectation
into a sudden change of direction,
tilting destiny to fall its way.
Winter Withers
…… its way into the woods
and waits….and wonders….and watches
until…. No-one is looking.
Boorishly, an ally introduces itself,
an iced-sliced wind to quiver-shiver
the woods’ most tender saplings;
to shudder the aged evergreens
with sharpened, encrusted crystals
sandpapering the toughest, roughest bark.
Weather warning complete,
Winter then crunches forward,
cold shouldering its way through the night
to finally rest against a solitary cabin.
Inside that logged shelter, Man awakens
allowing his thoughts freedom
from the waiting room of his mind.
Man has learned how to listen,
but much more importantly,
this man has listened how to learn!
What he now sharply tells himself is…
Winter has arrived; survival demands action.
Man has lived for a year with Mother Nature
after his severance with city life;
he now feels a yearning for the three R’s:
reconnecting, refiguring and relocating.
Man can’t allow Winter’s weathered wings
to embrace him with glacial isolation
nor allow its benumbed playmate… Loneliness
to knock, again, on that fragile, front door.
Ian Souter
Disconsolate obsidian waves crash over crumbling dunes,
Sweeping afflicted grains of sand back into the depths,
Dragging my paralysed soul with them.
Engulfed in despondent riptides,
I gasp for oxygen amongst rippling currents,
As a fiery moon hangs precariously overhead.
Blood-red reflections illuminate the stark waters,
While calls of the lost sing to me,
Like sirens beckoning sailors to their doom—
Louder and louder, until it becomes unbearable.
Flaring arms fill with cortisol,
Burning, tangled within suffocating seaweed.
Farther I get pulled from the shore;
The horizon is growing fainter now with every somber beat of my heart.
Isolation shrouds the thickening atmosphere.
Saline leaks into my mouth, drying my tongue as I frantically spit it out.
Hysterical laughter escapes through lips without realisation.
Dehydration overcomes.
Sanity slips with each sip of water.
My larynx sharply tightens—
Barely a noise can be uttered.
Yet the siren calls of the irretrievable continue to crescendo,
Pulling me into an empty expanse, everlastingly.
She spoke to me yesterday
Rippling in the brisk spring breeze
Humming her song of freedom
Etched with the pain of passion
Humbled by the sacrifices endured
Snapped sharply as a gust stirred images
Of a county’s growing pains
The trauma of generational gestation
Then she whispered to me
As I shed a tear
Each must become its own
Sharpen its own sword
Stand tall in the fickle winds
Knowing that an idle flag
Will stiffen in defense
Of its right to snap stiffly
In the rising winds of change
I smiled
As I watched her shadow
Dancing with the children
In the park’s playground
Don’t ever doubt their unwavering loyalty,
Omnipresent in their prolific pedigree,
Gifted with smell sensors acting sharply.
Galaxy, heart, erase, gaze, cold, tender
A swirling galaxy of thought,
Where feelings bloom and then are caught.
My heart, a fragile, beating thing,
Can soar on hope, or sharply sting.
A wish to erase the memory's sting,
Of words like ice, a frozen spring.
Your lingering gaze, a distant star,
Both near and infinitely far.
A touch so tender, soft and light,
Against the encroaching, endless night.
Then sudden cold, a chilling breeze,
Rustling through the silent trees.
The nights were short,
A clear summer, long and hot,
A chickadee visited every dawn,
And caught a stunning view by the pane.
Maybe my nest’s walls knew,
A fluffy gray-black chick who...
Lit the sun pointed to my nest house...
Captured my morning drowse.
A courageous little skylark,
With a notorious chirp crack,
She repeatedly taps my pane,
And sharply beeps, in rhythmic strain.
Pulled from beloved slumber, I scan who,
Through my drowsy eyes, I view...
The vivid rattle, truly, she’s a great dancer,
My ears almost paralyzed by the clatter.
Through the solid unglazed pane its clear,
The morning breeze powers the air,
The lovely melody alarms my doze...
Tirelessly, she airs her pose.
The shrill stole my focus,
A lone owls’ hoot – a secret in the sunrise,
The arduous tweet feels counterfeit,
But the unfolding truth won’t lie or cheat.
Of all those memories that come around,
each with boundless beauty or fond remorse,
yours flood frenzied dreams with troubling abound
of all those memories
My mind, muddled, alters its centered course.
Your voice echoes with its hypnotic sound
as I fervently flail, seeking the source.
With desperate hope, lost memories found,
my senses stricken with electric force,
I sharply slump into muted astound
of all those memories.
I have a rattling fine golden necklace
It always shines sharply by sunshine
I have been quietly enjoying her bright face
And asking the lights to attract her grace
She finally smiled and knocked at me politely
That made me feel seeing flowers blooming
In me, timing seems right, and singing is bright
And listen! Her voice! Is it attending to land in
The message to say? Uncle full of white-grey
Don't be shy to agree to the tell that I judge
You had gorgeous sleep with a romance dream!
Her eyes looking deep through darkness past
Beyond the curtain of sorrow's cast,
The pain of wounds sharply cut,
Sees the life and gave hope to a soul stuck
A man lost in dispair,
and shrouded in failures smoke
Chocked, gasping for breath,
Taking the last kick of a dying horse.
Seeing the garden rage with fire
Oh! the might of her might scream
Only the water from the rod of life can lower that pyre
How a person would be able to smile as her rage becomes a pleasant beam
The water brings the nutrients to her soil.
No longer does it appear to be a scorched earth!
Her humble breasts and legs decrease her tendency for her blood to boil. (decreascendo in tone)
At least it gives the opportunity for a new life to come from her loins in a beautiful birth (rising sharply)
After the rod has made its due, PLEASE kiss the peach
It is the life of the rage and calm
Oh! the ever-loved scent of the peach on the beach
Let it feel our lips to a tasty balm
Protect her like the bear!!!
As she deserves your tender loving care!!!
Each critique, a dart that sharply lands,
Piercing through the depths, unveiling the strands.
Presentation skills rightly come to play,
Dissecting flaws without dismay.
Gentle whispers soothe the gloom,
Like honey poured in the labyrinth's bloom.
Empower the frail, an onus to shoulder,
Utilize the might in ways one can only ponder.
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