Upon a hidden sea
Dreams fabled Halcyon Lulled by gentle waves Her nest fringed ’round in ice She sings for Mid-Winter Her frosted melody Soothes the winter wind Calling the sea to soft repose.
Another ten rounds Even when you can’t You don’t want To fight. Any more.
No mas. No mas.
Those are the days To fight the hardest. We fight to live.
I cannot describe
how deep the wound goes.
When I lost my
brother – he was only seven and I was only three.
we shared the same house.
and shunned one another.
Neither one aware
of the poison that forced us apart.
Grace walks a tip toe, and
is by nature a quiet soul, not inclined to boastful words.
Grace speaks loudest
where no words are found, in the embrace, in comfort given, in peace and even, yes, in defense of the vulnerable.
Grace is gentle,
but never mistake that for weakness.
Because it is only grace
that dares to walk the path which can save us from ourselves.
The one thing certain
About all this uncertainty Is that all our certainty Is now certainly uncertain. And that The only thing certain Is uncertainty. That much is certainly certain.
Heavy raindrops fall
Splashing on my glasses Blinding me to all.
Michael takes away
The lenses that warp my sight With a tender kiss.
Giving me shelter
From the chaos of my past I cling to his strength
His oak to my ivy.
His sun to my rain.
The prompt and the week that it is attached to sometimes are not in sync. This is the situation reflected in this entry to the poetry battle. The prompt was : Bliss.
The word repels me.
Turned its back on me. So I turn away in turn. Sore. Ignored And bruised. It denies me its presence So I deny its existence. I will be Barren stone To being a fool Waiting Longer Longing For rain To bloom.