Beneath the blanket of blue moonlight
beautiful mountains murmur
an ancient soulful song
from deep within rock grey stone
as verdant trees dance and sway
creating sacred poetry rustling
in the last sweet summer rain.
Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: Summer’s End
Have you seen the shimmering rain in moonlight
how it trembles with pain in dazzling moonlight?
Bright stars still shine high in the blue-black sky
despite the brilliant reign of swollen moon’s light
In this fragrant field tonight I want to see
desire in your eyes, hot flames in cold moonlight
Then through the drizzling rain, your deep voice whispers
a plea, ‘Come to me again in our moon’s light’
Following my heart to the place I call home
I see you, my swain in silvery moonlight
I am Linda, ardent lover forever
I kiss your lips, go insane in stark moonlight
dVerse Poetry Form: Ghazal
Poets United Midweek Motif: Light
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Source: Possibilities – Afflatus
I write,
for my thoughts to be around,
lingering in people’s mind
long after I am gone,
and my scripts,
lost under the dust
of some forgotten tome,
for someone to discover,
those raw emotions,
vivid in front of their eyes
even when years have passed by
I write,
with the hope that
after my departure from this world
my verses will be cherished,
maybe it will inspire a few,
or it will leave someone
with a thought to ponder or two
I write,
with the hope my words
maybe sometime in the future
will be read by some terrestrial beings
to understand how perplex humans emotions are
and despite all the mayhem around
how the vibrant soul never gives up
I write
for I want imaginations to leap,
liberating the mind
and igniting views from deep within,
I write for awareness
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Photo: Ormiston Gorge, West MacDonnell Ranges, NT.
Calm, bucolic smells waft along the warming air
as birds flit and flurry in the vapoured light,
sandstone stout and stoic
holds water
better than any argument,
so quiet this pastorale
a place of beauty and refuge
midst the maddening world,
yet no true sanctuary
without you.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul, pvcann.com
Off in the distance, hiding by a tree
Sal T. Coyote, waits, impatiently
He knows soon, dinner will arrive
Then he can feed his hungry wives
So they’ll stop nagging, making noise
At last, he can hang out, with the boys
Every day, around quarter past four
The roadrunner speeds by, with a roar
He has to time it perfectly, otherwise
This time he’ll surely meet his demise
Finally, he hears the familiar sound
A swoosh goes by, he hits the ground
And misses his prey, that’s nothing new
He can’t go home empty, he’ll be the stew
He gathers up leaves, and a bug or three
Heads back to his haven, behind the tree
Where he’ll stay, saddened, filled with malaise
Taunted by a roadrunner, til the end of his days
Meep! Meep!
May Writing Prompts – To Kill a Roadrunner – Day 23/31
©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights…
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There’s a stillness, a calm, surrounding night
In the air, you can smell, the scent of raindrops
Not yet formed, lingering quietly nearby
Little by little, the skies open, into silent tears
Shedding the pain, of a million crying spirits
Mourning, for the ones, who cannot mourn
Embracing the sorrow, as if it was their own
Gently washing away, the sins of the Earth
Silently cleansing each eternal soul
Then vanishing….as if the clouds were never
©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
Photo via Pixabay CC0
Old photographs
transition into a back door
left open
for old memories
to enter our hearts
and fill it with smiles
of people
we will never see again
but will forever
cherish and Love…
bitter-sweet and nostalgic
an ode to
who we were,
the places we have been,
and the hearts we loved.
poetry copyright neha 2019 and pic borrowed from Sue
In response to prompt by Sue Vincent. #WritePhoto
Do check out her blog if you haven’t already!
As a dancer, Isadora Duncan rejected the structured positions and rigid forms of ballet. She improvised, focusing on letting her emotions dictate her movements. She allowed her gestures to flow from one to the next. Dancing was a natural response to music. Aleister Crowley wrote that she displayed an “‘unconsciousness’ — which is magical consciousness — with which she suits the action to the melody.”
We can apply the description to writing. Sometimes the words tumble and appear on the page. They evolve freely. Abstract thought becomes a general idea and finishes as flowing prose. To reach that state, the writer has to let go. Released from regulations and rules they give the unconscious mind room to run free. The author breaks constraining bonds and creates an uninhibited natural work of art.
How do you connect to your wild nature?
_________________________________________
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
A few men deciding what we should do with our bodies,
But hasn’t it always been like that ladies?
In school, the shame that comes with blood stain,
The immodesty of breast-feeding your baby on the train.
You want a baby boy,
But not getting one is your fault.
The narrower waists and broad hips,
Orgasms you fake for their sake.
The 9pm curfews,
All the body shame, revert a few.
The virginity tests you fail,
On the first night of marriage.
The fertility tests you fail,
After another miscarriage.
The ease with which they violate your body,
The shame, the child is all yours to carry.
The rules and the dictates,
A 16 year listens and follows, teary words swallowed.
Contrary are many
This is the greatest of any
They say, “Women, raise your voice”
But noisy news rejoice
But who are they to decide our fate?
There is…
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The Reluctant Poet 