a beaches best friend
their long-term relationship
is never broken
Here beneath this pile of stones
Lies all that's left of Sally Jones
Her name was really Smith, not Jones
But Jones was used to rhyme with stones.
-Anonymous
Every sin laid upon me, left its stone.
Each dream denied, buried deep, is a stone.
Unkept promises haunt, their weight cold stones.
I walk, hunched by forgotten oaths, their stones.
Suffered wounds unseen, each bruise casts a stone.
Given pain returned sharper, molds its stone.
The choirs refused my ears each hymn, a stone.
Heaven closed; its silence bequeaths me stones.
Mud clings to my steps, the ground spawns stones.
The self is prison, walled in jagged stones.
Under skies, burdened breath, life begged for stones.
I build ruin. To endure is to move these stones.
trying to keep sinking relations afloat
is like patching an old boat with stones
for certain It'll go under
sharks will move in to plunder
then crap out your miserable bones
Once I painted a smile face
on a gigantic piece of stone
slapping blight on a noble face
some four billion years old.
A soul's time on earth is fleeting -
sometimes parting, sometimes greeting
other souls who sometimes touch us,
sometimes less, sometimes as much as
a universe within a single heart,
before these souls must then depart,
making room for other souls.
It's written in creation's scrolls,
but what if souls then turn to stones,
along the seashore instead of bones,
lapped by waves that caress and soothe
till some are beautiful and smooth?
Then might one rock, especially fair,
lie by a gnarled one, a wave set there?
Come bring me your tears from the mountain's stream,
carry them down over those high cheek bones;
rush to me with your dampened eyes that gleam,
in your pocket you're touching river stones.
I will help you awaken from this dream.
I'll lick those dewy drops of life's sorrow,
hold you close and feel your heart's rapid beat;
rest your head on my way to the morrow,
let me cradle you deep with my soul's heat.
Strength from each other we'll lend and borrow.
There's a place I want to show you, baby,
a place that's safe and full of love so sweet;
happy are the only tears you'll cry ... free,
a fortress I'll build us in which to entreat
a lasting forever where we can be.
Those stones that you carried down from so high,
we'll mount o'er the door to remind us when
tears fell like rain but did so swiftly dry;
we know the meaning ... to begin again.
Hold your hand in mine, let me hear you sigh.
Who we are, in terms of learning
Is it really important to know?
Just substances of shared belonging
Therein as above, so below
I don’t mean depth with all implied
The real truth comes superficial
It strikes the way unjustified
With obviousness of recognition
Each word reflects like carved in stone
So is the laughter, and the silence
The echo says you’re not alone
The past continues under guidance
Of future that has gone too soon
It was a thought that couldn’t last long
Two stones had fallen from the moon
Now they are one, happily wrong.
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Mum sets the last stone in cherry
Yet a fortnight for Christmas still
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Painted marl makes children merry
When December dew nips our sill
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Mum sets the last stone in cherry
I faced the demons of my past,
only upon myself, judgement I cast.
To clear to clean, and to understand,
the true workings of my hand.
To grow, to flourish and to shine,
as I now make the present mine.
Only in the moment, I choose to live,
only of myself, judgement I give.
To keep God alive, and upon His throne,
to keep my heart from turning to stone.
Each one I faced, I also overcame,
with all its sorrows, hurts and pain.
With this knowledge and wisdom, you see,
from the demons of the past, I am set free.
To be able to see, to know and to understand,
the true workings of our hand.
Sticks and stones will break your bones, and words destroy the heart,
the truth reveals our wrongs,
and shows us how to start.
(An old friend, married 44 years, passed - and I could only think of her and her husband.)
We knew one day this would happen
that one of us would decease.
As I am forever selfish,
I hoped it would be me.
When the end was very near,
I whispered in her ear,
“Stay close by the river Styx my dear,
for I’ll be following on very soon,
our souls may not look like our bodies
but I’m certain I’ll know you,
I cherished every breath you took
even as older we both grew,
sharing every mortal struggle,
and every lover’s sigh,
I always wanted to look my very best
when I looked into your eyes.
So, stay close by the river Styx my dear,
I’ll be following very soon
I could endure bitter hell itself
as long as I’m with you.”
.
.
A song for this:
I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face by James Taylor
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first stone knows hunger~
not the kind that bends the spine,
but the hollow where the soul forgets
it once was full.
The second stone knows fire.
It sits in the sun, mute witness
to every spark that ever burned
a name into the dark.
The third stone knows laughter~
the kind that shakes loose
from a throat like coins
spilled on a beggar’s plate.
The fourth stone knows waiting~
the patient kind, the slow
carving of hope, drop by drop,
year after year, soft as held hands.
grass slick slippery
garlanded with dew's glint beads
taunts weary sleepers
to reach out without thinking
beyond sinking stepping stones
dawn light ogles through
a grey, hopscotch-scattered sky
crunching clouds aside
to find a way through chaos
beyond sinking stepping stones
treetops break the skin
of bedraggled drowned-out mists
frogs croak waterlogged—
no shores for sleepwalking gulls
beyond sinking stepping stones
horizon dissolves
unhitched from any compass
worn edges are blurred—
direction is strewn with ash
beyond sinking stepping stones
echoes lose their source,
I am confused, miasmal
moored meanings unspooled—
I grab for something solid,
beyond sinking stepping stones
in off-ramp byways
of shiftless realities
I crawl through muddles
clambering to find a way
beyond sinking stepping stones
poem written for an online poetry class in response to the above image
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, the river whispers cold,
its tongue of silver licking stones~
those ancient teeth that never spoke,
though centuries have knelt and prayed.
The water writes, then takes it back,
a scribe with no allegiance.
The stones remain—unread, unturned—
like letters never sent.
And I, who came to hear their song,
stand knee-deep in their silence.
The current murmurs what they won't say:
Some things are best left unfinished.
What stone should be thrown,
To disown a system I'm shown,
I know I'm not alone,
Life feels like a big loan,
A load I own and pay for,
Really I don't want it anymore,
Sick of seeing the poor and miserable,
Life divisible by what's in the bank,
Worried about gas in their tank,
Thankful for the littles things,
My capabilities can bring,
It's hard to sing scraping the floor,
Hoping to find a little more,
A quarter, A dime,
How much can I find this time,
Priming myself for the best,
Knowing I'll have enough for the quest,
Second guessing my choices,
Inner voices start screaming,
Little demons scheming,
A seemingly impossible task,
Asks to be acknowledged,
Dredged up from their beds,
I'm tired of what's in my head,
I'd feel better off dead,
I've said it over and over,
The boulder on my shoulder,
Is growing older everyday,
What stone Should I throw today?
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