Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
Small bird take flight.
Open your wings, leave shelter behind.
Fear will ground you, riddle you weak.
Feel the winds, the rushing power in the breeze.
Allow the current to embrace you, ruffle your feathers as you chase the sun.
Free yourself from doubt.
Freedom is fluid.
Should I fall, how dreadful.
Should I be incapable of flight, my soul would rupture.
But should I soar, to touch the milky skyline, Oh how inspiring.
Even the smallest bird may take flight
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
An immaculate beauty, silken petals of crimson tone, so delicate and bold.
The naked eye she bewitches.
Her scent, heavenly, perfumed aroma everlasting.
There is no comparison to a rose.
In a field of evergreen, lush jade shades, I am the dandelion hidden among the underbrush
I am the weed among their existence.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
Gaze deeply into these eyes, sail inside the beryl drag.
Find what I hide.
fight against the lapping tides.
Oh lover, oh caption of my heart.
Seek the insecurities within my torrent.
Beseech them with a lulling lullaby.
Starve the fear from my bones, purge them away with your soothing stroke.
Hush the doubt that riddles me weak, silence them before they do me.
Ease my mind so it may not wonder.
For if it does I am mislaid.
My soul would become the ship without harbor.
Bask in my dreams that lay coiled.
Breathe life into them, fuel my infinite desires.
Taste the hope on my tongue.
Oh so bitter sweet, fear lingering on these ashen lips.
Stripe me down, expose me so I can be unspoiled .
Love me in this moment, for all these things are what lovers do.
I will be the ocean and you my anchor.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
My heart lays within the burrow.
In the stillness of this place there is beauty, its envelopes the terrain.
Softness is embodied in the rich colors of both shade and hue.
Lush emerald herbage, grass swaying within the current that embraces you.
Twilight, a glistening blanket ensnared within the ebony backdrop.
There is an abundance of life, it thrives in the meadow.
To the wolves who bay.
To the coyotes that cackle.
There is life within the burrow.
May you play in the evergreen for an eternity, your mind privy to time.
Chase the swiftness of the jack rabbit, paw at passing fireflies.
Nestle yourself among the comforts of the vegetation, embrace both warmth and wonder.
Incarnate is this place.
For my heart lays within the burrow and as do you, as do you
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
Coming into light.
Darkness.
Bleak and wintry.
Deep shades of obscurity, the taste of bitterness tangible.
It’s consuming.
From rich depths to softened grays.
Neutral tones.
An overcast of dullness awakens, sensations now becoming heightened.
Somber, a pool of profound sadness.
Hues lighten, rich tones of vibrant reds and oranges emerge through the gloom.
The colors entwine.
Warmth rises and spreads, a golden sheen casting an amber light across the infinite state of mind.
A storm of passion, a red sea of emotion churning from repressed aggression.
Fury, hatred and violence all manifesting until the tint softens, magenta developing blues.
Skies of endless pigments.
The bracing tidal waves of azure allow for raw sentiment.
Tribulation, sorrow and anguish.
It’s the state of mourning.
From dramatic sapphire tones to cooling hues, white interlaces with richness.
Green represents envy.
Greed and craving.
Yellow is radiance, unfiltered joy.
Happiness is an impermanent state.
Positive vibes that unify.
Harmony and emotional satisfaction.
Within that small spectrum there is nirvana.
White, boundless.
A state of liberation.
To be awake is coming into light.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
There are hands that extend.
Crookedly they creep, their twisted branches reaching for me.
Decaying twigs resemble fingers, fingers that coil in midnight locks.
Ebony hallow, where the beast bay’s at the alabaster moon.
A scarlet cape tattered and worn.
The air is dense, it chokes with stench.
Things rot that lay shallowly buried.
Ebony hallow, where spirits wonder.
Aimlessly they moan with restlessness.
Petrifying specters.
In ebony hallow, blood runs deep.
Rivers of red, bedrock drenched in vibrant shades of rouge.
It numbs you, your senses heightened, the feeling of being hunted intrusive.
God rest your soul shall you ever enter the woodlands where foul play.
Ebony hallow, a cold October, an unforgiving fate.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
Lend me an eye so I can see.
My eyes have cried for to long to observer the wonderment that is the world around me.
When I look at you, in your eyes I see purity.
How clearly you absorbed, how vividly you perceive.
There is still a mystery in the universe that only you notice.
From the way the leaves shift shades in the loom of October, to the way winters pallet glimmers across the cool suns horizon.
There is an artistry in your stare.
You gaze outward and look within, with beautiful coating you become a witness to the world of innocents.
Oh the eyes of a child.
Oh the simple soul of a babe.
Lend me an eye so I too can witness splendor again
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
The rusty gears begin to grinded.
The sound of metal scraping metal is ear wrenching.
Fragments of iron drift in the scorching breeze, the particles shimmer like autumn leaves.
The toothed wheels work together to alter the foundation of tomorrow.
Let go of the disappointments of today, their dark shadows cling onto past in order to hold blame.
There is no more worrying about what happened yesterday, history can not be changed.
It maybe arduous labor, but its efforts are monumental.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Whitney Hart Poem
If I wrote a book about the love you took, would you then realize the pain it each word?
Every moment would then be easily depicted.
Every instance where you made me feel whole again would then become tangible.
The love expressed in the beginning would be ideal.
Would the words I write bring you to expense the same joy I felt?
The bulk of us which made up the middle would read of longing, separation and enduring.
Could you sense the wanting?
Desperation, the sheer desire to experience unity.
If I wrote an ending to us, could your eyes even bare to read it.
Your heart would be awakened to the strife you intentionally inflicted.
My heart would be bare, exposed on paper and the pain it carried would be noted, Due to you.
It can not be unfelt.
You can not will the ways of the broken hearted.
If I wrote a book, it would be of loss.
The tale of a tragically broken individual.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
|