Poetry, we write poems

heal thyself

we write poems thursday prompt no 27: healing
photo:  by Cuba Gallery – Now on Twitter!, flickr

..when i saw this unbelievably beautiful photo, psalm 23 came to mind, ..” the lord is my shepherd i shall not want, he maketh me to lie in green pastures…”

first we held hands
not so much for her
possibly more for me

am i in heaven yet?

we sat silent for awhile
she was slowly slipping away
forgetting where she was

am i in heaven yet?

clutching heavenly clouds
entertaining existential eternity
in the silence of tv chatter
not wanting her to go

am i in heaven yet?

ms barbara brow past away this morning, we are grieving… though excited for her, as believers, absent from the body is present with the lord….

Standard
monday poetry train, short story

transfer

it is an exciting day for monday poetry train revisited it is the 100 edition. congrats to gautami tripathy at firmly rooted ; photo: Cuba Gallery: Black and White / farm / vintage / texture, flickr

leaving a little note tucked in the sleeve of a forgotten memorable book she hugged the house and walked away.  it was after all more than enough. there were no more than a few hours left after an aeon in stasis.  searching the blue sky her eyes took in every detail acutely aware each footstep brought the disappearance closer. touching everything her fingers soon grew numb.

Standard
acrostic, WritersIsland

wish

writers island no 23 2010 : this week’s pleasure is soar.
photo: Cycle of life?ஃ முதல் அ வரை, flickr

soft liquid silence
over treetops mountain view
aerial eyesight blue sky canvas
roars the remains of remembrance

he slept soundly viewing a world no one else knew. weaving his way amid the stars he stopped at a four-way intersection. hesitating little he pressed the pedal of his pedantic personality making way with wings of steel. nearly there he never looked beyond his porch.

Standard
Haiku, OneSingleImpression, Poetry

lost and found

one single impression: this week’s topic suggested by snow white is empty.

located in the most northeast corner of texas where only the wind and fields exist one could hear the telling of abandoned stories so close to home….

remnants of a house
pardon the passive rooms
conscious with the corruptible

wide open window
watching for a future
forever expecting

spirit shadows soaring
waving wings on their way
gold droppings falling fast

being bare of color
vacant wild ramblings roar
smell a rift beguile time

benevolent white clouds bend
hot with heat the sun prevails
delicate dizzy seeds ignite

messy with meaning
intermittent sticky notes
written with a wiry flare

found by fortuity
a hundred years later
the paled paper speaks of age

Standard