He was the stoic.
Dark clouds simmered
pent-up irks dripped occasional drops
until a stream of bile broke through.
Thunder rolled
in a whirling microburst.
Words spewed and spat,
scarred and seared their hearts.
Quiet seeped in like bone chilling fog
smothered senses and eroded trust.
The gulf widened at forever high tide
bridge collapsed, gone
no crossing, no return.
Her youth was filled with dreams
but dreams need words
when you rise from bed.
Fireman, policeman, chairman of the board
man-hours too stiff with ill-fitting pants
workman’s comp beyond her grasp.
Now, in the waning years of life
eye sight dimmed with time
she finally began to see
the power of the word.
To live in shadows doth chill the soul
and thus my invitation,
come with me to greet the morn.
Together, we shall find the sun
the light and sustenance for our way.
She tickles my funny bone
two front teeth, gone
bare space, a badge of honor
exchange rate higher now
fairies demand more.
Her red silk scarf
tossed aside in passion
lies still on dew kissed grass.
A slight breeze unfurls,
curls beneath its folds
ripples flow from edge to edge.
The morning storm
not expected,
rolls in stronger gusts.
Gossamer strands arc
higher and higher still
until vivid crimson
shatters darkened skies.
Come join me at the dawn
lift up your hopes,
lay bare your heart.
I promise this, my love
our dreams shall soar
with the morning sun.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: the dawn is symbolic of new beginnings.
In this place
we lived life without reins
walked quickly, surefooted and headstrong
enjoyed the sleep of youth, less but deep
savored black coffee and devoured Kierkegaard.
This hill
tread so many times
landscape changed, more green, more lush
more steps, surely higher, climb to a different space
new buildings rise above refurbished old.
The trees are bigger, the shade more dense
as we seek the shadows of our past.
The sun is a recluse today
exhausted from yesterday’s mirth,
dawn abandoned.
Grey blankets a rain-skewed world
as headlights appear
and disappear
through green wet treetops.
Windows shut tight
shades raised, not flapping
coffee brews and I wait,
staring through drips.
Time-deprived street-lights
shine their night-time faces,
as umbrellas bob through a labyrinth
of puddles on cement.
Tired eyes close, barely awake
I sense the city on a rainy morn.
Coffee gurgles, cars slosh through streets
and a wet flag clangs metal grommets
on its cold steel pole.
She slung words at him like wild pitches
and he shrugged them off for years.
Until one day,
she threw a perfect strike.
Well, what can I say?
The Red Sox are in the basement and we Boston fans need a bit of humor!
What stories will you tell?
Tales shared from mouth to mind
or those visible in sepia tones.
The giant oak’s shade
comfort for so many,
bark rough hewn and silent.
If I leave this place,
will you remember?
lillian the home poet 