By the rickety rim, farewell till the morrow.
Moonlit, as stones were kicked.
Our colloquies went on.
Foolish I,
you…
the antics,
ne’er be by flesh more longer,
but by souls,
still sit nightly.
Category: Poetry
Am I still?
Am I still…
a string of your heart?
Or does it lie frayed, too torn apart.
Seasoned now, but still we’re broken,
enough has always been, left unspoken.
See my light, I’ve been casting in hope,
I swear this absence has no cope.
Our detached strings will again accrete,
I won’t stop trying until I feel your beat.
We were the Warriors
Indolent Saturdays poking things with sticks.
We ran the back hills of our home.
Three soldier foray, we flanked…pretending.
Skinned knees and eye pokes, no bother,
as we’d rather dare and tell more lies.
Disturbed
Ululating beasts disturb the rem of my fantasy.
I lie cowering from the tap, tap, tapping.
Scads of hurt chase sweet dreams into nightmares
…just this time don’t awaken me.
Weathered
A haloed nimbus, like a surge, it comes on without forecast.
Emotions raw, cold, the flashes like lightning.
Still I have neither a hand to squeeze, nor an ear to my voice.
Nothings protected but my foolish promise to you.
Those furtive actions lie forever buried in the sands of time,
like your lifeless soul that erodes with the winds of change.
For a Spell
Quotidian stories they share,
sitting shoulder to shoulder.
Those confabulating chaps
with their doddery routine,
fidget on a bench of stone.
Each muster for a spell,
hoary old fellows chinwag
anecdotes to their nature,
as I eves-dropped for a tale.
The Rain Made Me Do It
I surveil the abstract of raindrops as they slither the outside pane
its journey, merely a moment in time
each tiny drop…
they dazzle like fireworks synchronizing with my deluge of thoughts now cached from a once juvenile me
I beam with the sound of the pitter-patter
the torrent tone lulls me to a reminiscent state as I recall the stories of my olden
For Granted
Blare my name,
call me to the table,
wake me up early…
just
one
more
time…
The Torment
Again, I lie awake, assuaged by the stillness of night,
a clock ticking, then tocking, slowly teasing me with dawn.
Soon the fringe of daylight will edge toward tomorrow,
exposing my scars of yesterday, barely healed.
Why is there no end to the torment?
The Inside Chair
The inside chair was always where,
I felt the most at home.
I’d rush to dinner, always the winner,
to sit on my dining room throne.
Argue your matter, try with the flatter,
this spot was mine alone.
If you sat in my place, or stole my space,
Grandmother would make it known.
I sit no more, like i did before,
time has only shown.
That the inside chair is always where,
i’ll miss about my home.
Earth To Ash 