Slow up; stepping wearier.
For Time's effect
What in the mind, this path along
Fooling does cross.
They'll vouch for it; these startlements
Sprung upon by.
Whilst heart out its breast jumps, leap
All pools across!
She fluently moves across the floor as silently as dust
Every muscle in her physique is on high alert to respond
Her body is perfectly sculpted from the legs to the bust
Painlessly lifting her weight by going above and beyond
Her movements are spiritual and connect with her soul
The slim arms were in sync, blending earth with the sky
Bowing, bending, swaying to the music, still in control
Fluttering and flapping symbolizing a monarch butterfly
Working herself into a frenzy while turning and spinning
As if pleading to life to give her a reprieve from misfortune
Tired of losing to adversity that prevents her from winning
Finally, collapsing in a heap on the floor from exhaustion
A choreographed dance is a divine artistic act of expression
It has become her medicine and the purest form of therapy
The movement hopes to reduce anxiety, fear, and depression
Though wearier than ever, for there is no cure for her malady
I contemplate the bobber on the water.
It is as still as a friend’s prayer at meeting.
Connected to this moment by monofilament
I sit as if I were asleep.
A gust of north wind roils the surface
into ridges. In the furrow
the bobber dances, dances,
dropping its seed into the darkness
perhaps to lure forth one more wish,
one more harvest from the mystery
before I lose the day’s last light.
As suddenly as the wind came upon me
it dies. Placidity prevails, a perfect crust
of ice on new fallen snow at dawn
untouched by even an insect’s wing.
The bobber is still again
as still as prayer again
Retrieve. . . retrieve . . . a small voice
urges me, unfed need dueling with sense,
to cast again, to cast again.
but I am wearier than I thought
and it is accident time, accident time.
The uncast line is better, much better.
There is something hungry in the water.
“Grief is the price we pay for love.” — Queen Elizabeth II
What can I say about the one I loved and lost?
The eulogy of his life will not be spoken by me
for I'm too grief stricken after paying the cost
of loving. From that debt I'll never be free.
Now, dark clouds are constantly hovering
no longer do songbirds sing in the morning sky.
I think I shall never succeed in recovering
from the sorrow I felt when saying, "Goodbye."
My hearth is filled with ashes, gray and chilled.
No longer does an ember glow in my heart
and the only thing I feel is a love, unfulfilled
once his soul and mine were ripped apart.
There are no words anyone could possibly speak
to eulogize the one who's become a distant star.
I grow wearier as each tear falls on my cheek,
knowing I cannot reach him. He's traveled too far.
February 13, 2023
Writing Challenge "E" Words Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Day after oppressive day after day
Searing heat, soaring humidity
Early I rise, before the dawn
Evaporated the dewdrops on my lawn
Night after oppressive night after night
Darkness' curtain drops with a thud
What little breeze there was, folds its wings
A wall of steam, palpable, over everything
Day after oppressive day after day
I feel wearier with each passing hour
Only so grateful that I still have power
Without air-conditioning, I couldn't breathe
Night after oppressive night after night
I lay on my pillow, unable to slip
A thin film of sweat, from forehead to feet
Dreading the day, and its sweltering heat
To many adulations
Ecstatic feeling of overjoy
Joy unbetold
The dancing
The intermittent sigh of relief.
The bringer of good tidings
Is at it again.
He works magic for the indigent,
No man was born less fortunate
But some were born luckier.
When conditions start changing
When misery has ceased
The fluctuations of resource
ebbed,
A turnaround is here with us.
When life gets tastier
And sorrow grows wearier.
My joy knows no bounds
My ululation
Unfathomable
The fastidious stamping of feet
The unrehearsed dance.
Come,
Join me and dance
For I have arrived.
Blue kettle on the heat,
Whistle and scream,
There is no one to meet,
So release the steam.
Shiny exterior,
Now tarnished; crude,
Skeleton wearier,
Because of the shrewd.
Spilling over, it’s seen,
Begging for ease,
But to help, no one’s keen,
Silenced at every ‘please’.
I might grow bald...great...(don't tear my confidence apart)
No offense, but I'm old young -
Meaning, old in heart...(in lonely, glad, mad and misunderstood states as of late)
Growing wearier
As the years pass on by...bye...
Youth is not gone yet
I embrace notions
That being old can be good!
If there's pros, there's cons
I might lose my mind (my memory in other outlandish words)
But, I don't mind being wise (better than being foolish and dumb)
Might as well rewind (look back at good ol' times...that flutter away from my dementia-inflicted mind, feeling under a rock and fogginess clouds my mind as I unwind for a time...dreading the fact that I was and will be left behind and a long-lost lamb, willing to be found)
Angry words on humbled paper
Staring with contempt at the face of their maker
Regretting being created completely inferior
To much better poems by writers much wearier
Silently screaming and burning with rage
If he had any sense he would burn this page
Angry words are eloquent not
Spilled in weakness from an emotional robot
Blistering ignorance fills this space
Words without meaning are such a waste
Shred this page and start all over
If this poem grows you are just getting colder!
Leaving what has passed in the past is partially good advice
What partially isn’t right is pasts’ manifestation as present day strife
Silenced youth now a mentally ill truth
Stranded and lonely yet still walks toward an ideal venue
Ill dreams of ill beings –
Wakes up and is still seeing
A bright sun shining on dark souls
Yet we’re wearier of the common cold
Dreams are possible ideas
Even if on a tangent it’s real
Without dreams life is idle
We must dream for our survival
Our pasts have molded us
If we forget our past then our future is hopeless
Dreams sometimes mesh our experiences and play out future scenarios
Our dreams are on to something
We should tune into our intuitive radios
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