from a distance letting go takes one’s breath a symphony of amber, crimson, gold, emerald summer flare fading, cool winds of change wooing us to dance like dervishes to break free of all bounds, to ride the gale with abandon, to flutter softly to the earth, in afterglow of ecstasy, to drink the dew, to sleep letting go takes one’s breath from a distance
when one draws near there’s no denying truth clarity, reality, convey a somber view of brittle bones, age-dappled skin, fragile veins, the cusp of death, spring, summer, now autumn fading, letting go, the grim final hurrah that exposes our nakedness letting go is not so pretty, we cling, longing for a spring we’ll never see there’s no denying truth when one draws near
in the end when all is said and done when all that is left of us is dust when the earth reclaims our mortal shell, what stories will our brief life tell, memories perhaps of greening, vibrant, shading, dancing, dreaming, kissed by sun, caressed in moon glow, brief, a blip, we laughed, we loved, we lived life full…oh how we loved! when all is said and done in the end
the world has a story to tell…one of wonder, of dark and light, wild with adventure and gentle remembering but in truth, it is only a mirror and if you are quiet she will whisper the answers you seek from inside your heart
she stands, deeply rooted amidst a grove of shallow-footed firs, bursting with fruit; her evergreen friends taunting her as she blushes red, surrendering her modesty to the cool winds of autumn
what dreams she’ll dream when winter comes, memories wakened in the deep, dark loam, buried there where only her roots can taste them, memories of seasons past, of seed-burst longing to breach the grave, to life, to feel the sun upon her face and the sweet seductive breeze, the thrill of greening
she stands, deeply rooted amidst a grove of shallow-footed firs, some felled by tempests, or the ax destined to waste away to dust covered in gaudy baubles and tinsel, their ever-greenness an illusion laid bare at the altar of lost souls, and rendered to ash at vanity’s bonfire
yes, she stands, deeply rooted in the bosom of she who keeps this blue orb spinning, sailing through a sea of sweet milk just far enough from the sun not to be consumed and close enough to the moon to see her reflection, light and shadow colliding, in ecstasy, heart and soul all-knowing
~kat
-Inspired by a new book I’m reading… “Seeds From the Wild Verge” by Brendan Ellis Williams
the hazing starts when we are girls, sheltered from the outside world where monsters claim the unsuspecting we fledge our natal nests expecting limitless opportunity… too soon smacked by reality that most of us will just make do while fate rewards a chosen few we learn to make the best of it find happiness in simple shit work our fingers to the bone and if we’re lucky build a home find love, companionship, have kids for most of us, that’s all there is and it’s enough, we tell ourselves our dreams collecting dust long-shelved our parents didn’t mean to lie they hoped we’d crack the ceilinged sky but we were set up from the start ensuring disappointed hearts only to learn life’s bittersweet where happiness and sorrow meet and if we live to see old age our minds intact, our bodies razed as memories flash in our mind’s eye at least we can admit we tried, gave it all we had and then some fought to glimpse another sun though life is messy, it is all hard to let go when the sickle falls
1- the day and gloam meet subtle wafts of musky air, leaves, weary of summer heat crisp, clinging tight where parched sap chokes mid-limb, no life to spare
2- pencils freshly sharp notes of soft wood, shaved lead, tools of learning the three R’s, art, notebooks, college-ruled students, masked, head anxiously to school
3- pumpkin that and this, ad nauseam, morning brew concoctions promising bliss at a price, it’s new again, some wait all year, sad but true
4- blink and time is gone soft body, aching, graying, dreams unrealized, nights long and dark, days fading winter coming soon, too soon, just saying
5- another harvest wisdom gleaned from books and tears choose your poison, leave the rest the death we most fear… not living life full while we are here
~kat
A new form, to me at least, lured me from hiding…actually, forced me from what has become the chaos of surviving. I paired it with my own creation, the horatiodet. Ode to my favorite season.
The cadralor is a poem of 5, unrelated, numbered stanzaic images, each of which can stand alone as a poem, is fewer than 10 lines, and ideally constrains all stanzas to the same number of lines. Imagery is crucial to cadralore: each stanza should be a whole, imagist poem, almost like a scene from a film, or a photograph. The fifth stanza acts as the crucible, alchemically pulling the unrelated stanzas together into a love poem. By “love poem,” we mean that your fifth stanza illuminates a gleaming thread that runs obliquely through the unrelated stanzas and answers the compelling question: “For what do you yearn?” gogyoka
Horatiodet is a total of 5 lines, syllable count: 5-7-7-5-9 / rhyme scheme: ababb. In other words, it is a short Horatian Ode (only one stanza), a form based on the style of Horace, Quintus Horatius Flaccus (December 8, 65 BC – November 27, 8 BC), the leading Roman lyric poet.
So it is easier for you to find all the parts/chapters of my ongoing fiction series, I created a new page that lists all the links. You can check it out HERE!
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like mercury colliding... 