It recurs from time to time. A terrible dream
It wakens me. I'm in a cold sweat.
I'm not this person. Am I?
A night sky conceals me. I lie in wait.
He staggers by me. I hate him.
It seems so real. I raise the knife to his throat.
It's all too real. I draw it across his neck.
I feel hot blood. It gushes across my arm.
He slumps forward. His gurgled shouts are in vain.
He crumples to the dark earth. I disappear into the night.
I am myself. I am coldly calculating.
I create an alibi. I clean my clothes.
I dispose of the knife. I bathe.
So real a dream. Or a suppressed memory?
Yarn and needles,
Smells of soap and roses,
Soft words of praise, loud words of care,
Starlight at three
Motionless shadow, lurk
No sound but the soundless owl
It used to rock.
In September it stilled.
She no longer sits with us, but
Cold marble stone,
Of permanence it speaks,
But time will wear the profound words
Cold wet drops of water fell from fingers of ice.
Down, down they fell from the snow laden spruce.
Shadowed from the distant tiny sun an alder peeked above the snow.
Drop after drop fell on it, each alone so small;
But together they bore into its soul.
In winter's grip the alder had no passion.
The tall spruce stole all the light.
It stifled the alder's essence from flowing.
Until came a man, with an ax.
Then, with a crack and a thud, the spruce was made to fall.
For the alder, the echo of its crash never faded.
As it resounded off other trees and the knoll.
But in time the trickling of drops became a rush.
As winter’s grip fled before the sun.
Its warmth lifted the snowy vale, from the eyes of the growing alder.
With eyes unmasked, the alder was leery of all that it saw.
But the steadfast sun rose overhead, the alder absorbed its warmth.
And it reached towards the light, and felt itself grow.
Its roots grew strong and encircled others, binding it firmly to the soil.
And it saw for the first time the mountain that became its home.
life could be simpler
the flowers could last longer
spring would come sooner
we could live by the sea
peace would live forever
there were no problems to solve
no pain to feel
no burdens to bear
no tears to shed
Come to me so that I may drink of you.
Let me drink you with the passion of my soul.
I long to love, and to be loved, by you.
I long to be and to exist on the mere substance of the air you breath, by way of this passion.
To see you,
To feel you,
To touch you,
To smell you,
To breathe in those passions is the reason for my happiness,
While no reason at all can explain.
Wings of the Heart
Saddened by the thoughts of the day, a heart stops to ponder.
Knowing it should not feel sorrow, it cries the silent tears of life.
How can it feel what it should not feel?
Why is it allowed to go to places it should not see?
Why does it cry for desires unspoken,
On the wings of a broken heart?
Is it true, that if you let something go, something that you feel, something that you know,
that something may return to thee?
How, how can that be?
How to cling to something so uncertain?
How to trust in what you can’t see.
Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop a thing, a thing that should not be.
But what can a heart do to stop this pain?
How can it stop shedding the tears of broken life?
Perhaps it’s to remember that the heart has wings,
To carry aloft like a kite.