Tag Archives: Nature

The Sleep

Good morning, all. I’ve got a short poem for everybody today. Let me know what you think and please enjoy!

The Sleep

The light of his eyes

escapes

and wanders through you,

venturing through all those many layers

of your most precious soul,

finding lamps that light the winding path

that leads around a gentle knoll.

It searches along

meandering paths

into all your nooks and crannies,

working your mistakes

and knowing all those things it takes

to truly see the heart that breaks.

You rest with him in sleep that wakes.

Tired?

Good morning, everyone! I wake up yet again, a wonderful blessing to have all my faculties and the light of the sun to wake up to. It is that light of the sun being reflected in the eyes of one so blessed that I write about today. Don’t forget that if you’d like to donate and support my work, links for that are on my “About” page. It really helps me keep writing and putting out the unique content you’ve come to know me for. Please enjoy the poem, friends.

The Sleep

The light of his eyes

escapes

and wanders through you,

venturing through all those many layers

of your most precious soul,

finding lamps that light the winding path

that leads around a gentle knoll.

It searches along

meandering paths

into all your nooks and crannies,

working your mistakes

and knowing all those things it takes

to truly see the heart that breaks.

You rest with him in sleep that wakes.

Rustling Leaves

Good morning, everyone. Today I’ve got a more narratively focused poem that I think you’ll like very much. It’s about a dream I had, something hard to place. Please enjoy.

Dreams of a Forgotten Place

I find myself in a forest,

the crunch of heavy footsteps rising up from fallen leaves.

I am searching,

following tracks in the muddy, refuse-laden path that lies before me.

I do not feel cold,

despite the wind howling and biting around.

Coming upon a small clearing,

painted by smears of red and gold,

there to the side stands an old television set

up on a cart,

something I remember from a memory once.

There is static as the wind has now stopped,

a single little note rests there at the cart’s base,

same as where the boot prints seem to stop and watch the screen for a moment.

The note only says, if I may trust my mind yet still,

“Not today. Come and find me.”

I’ve almost forgotten what I lost,

now not so sure if my quest’s purpose is for the faint imprint that remains

or for the finding of it again.

I see more footprints at the edge of the clearing, leading off into another winding path that slinks along beside low hills and abscising trees.

I know I will not find what I am looking for.

I only know I must carry on,

searching for that which I’ve forgotten.

I move to venture onwards,

my sight fading to black again with every step.

Primordial Primogeniture

How simply does one become a god? To gain rightful omniscience and see the world for what it is? To know the world as it should be? I bring to you a story of a boy whose choice to become a man started with a devastatingly cold shower, one that kickstarted his dead heart and brought the warmth back to his chest. There is nothing but the light within him now.

Primogeniture

The cards are not so black and white

like pictures in a movie,

but blue and black and purple too

like fields of flowers,

oh so new.

The dice are set

upon a table.

As they roll,

stuck up on the gable

are seen so many heads

missing but a label.

Gamble, gamble, gamble, ramble…

A man so deeply cut

running through the bramble.

Proprietors chase

at fervent pace

only for so to

win, against you,

that race.

Pitter patter on the pond.

Rain drops

and dew drops

flit upon a single little palm frond.

Nearing the beach,

a god i so beseech,

to help me in my time of need.

I am ignored,

for it is time

for me to accede.

This firstborn son

becomes The Sun.

Esoteric Ablutions

Hiding, secretly, covertly under the stairs, you think of ways to wash yourself. Sitting there, on a dusty mattress, pondering your cleanliness. No matter how many times you wash your hands… How can you be sure? Please enjoy the poem, friends.

Interregnum

Peridot and periwinkle,

pox and pax romana,

pleat and pedigrees,

all words that come to mind

and rest within that little wrinkle.

I do so miss

feeling that feeling,

the one I knew

could never last.

Perhaps you’d like to study

that peculiar way a heart shatters,

how the impact velocity

and momentum

change the shape of shards.

Maybe then you’ll find

what it is you’re looking for.

It’s funny,

in that funny little way

that things always are,

the way I know.

You think I don’t hate the way my mind works?

The way it bends and twists

and flexes and breaks,

over and over and over again,

spiraling down into the abyss,

locked forever

in phantasmic bliss.

Fleeting and illusory.

Perhaps two words

that in practice

would be found contradictory,

for how can a thing be fleeting

when it didn’t exist in the first place?

To be loved

is surely so

to be lost as well

upstream

without a paddle

heading towards the falls,

only there is no river down below,

but blackness

stretching down and down.

Throw a rock

and you’ll never hear the sound.