Words Much Like Poetry

argent light shines down upon a grave dappled hill. death does not walk here, instead it sleeps; though upon rare occasions, when the earth’s satellite seeks reprieve behind billows of sky-bound veils, the Sandman’s sway knows a brief surcease, and phantasms conceived of Platonic philosophy, rise from their crypts. they displace nothing of earth, nor of air, these distorted perceptions, these false semblances who make claims upon continued existence... Image: Howard Pyle, Pirate Ghost , 1921

the stony bump has me reeling back to reality ... I stare at the path as it disappears behind me ... as I turn and look forth ... I see myself again; holding the reins to the tireless horses ... I am driver and passenger both ... the dark path behind ... echoes the even darker path ahead ... I sit alone—where I go, I know not, but I vaguely remember whence I came ... the only sound is the rhythmic trot of hooves ... like the tick of time pulling me towards an inevitable fate ... shadows of the past pass by so fast ... I throw my hand out in an effort to reach back, against a shadowy tree I graze my finger, in an effort to make my thoughts linger ... another stony bump ... I am thrown back to the wooden seat ... forced to look ahead and endure the everlasting trot ... from the Tireless Horses --------------------------------------------------- New From: Trapped in time series by M. Davies

While angry longing sweeps gustily through the channels that make of my soul a darkened maze, I listen to songs that have become like unto classics. And the thoughts and feelings that they were once soundtrack to, flood the angry longing, turning the world, this place where the meadowlark sleeps, into something more. The light becomes softer, gentle. The scrape of chairs and the ringing tones of cellphones, and the tenor and bass, alto and soprano of un-silent voices fade into the bearable facsimile of a drone. Oh, truly, in this moment, with Oasis's Wonderwall playing its sharps and flats, this path I've embarked upon once more is too poignant for angry longing to hold much sway.

"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought..." ~ William Shakespeare There is nothing sweet or silent about my thoughts. They are as a cacophony of thunderous emotion which boom against the brick walls of hindrance and despondency that I've built in my wage against an uncertain destiny. Am I bound for the immortality that is akin to rapacious craving in my terminable coil? Or am I bound for dust and the ash that I am namesake? A forgotten form that will dwell in the tide of longing that for eons has swallowed whole those that do not ever manage more than to live. In my mind, I shine brighter than the nova sun. In reality, very few look beyond the sullen shell that carries inside it my luminous core.

castles built on illusion, stones conjured out of thin air, courtyards brimming with greenery and paradise charm, brought to life by rivalry and chivalry. relative reality spun, formed and reformed, hollow clouds the mold for the whole, adventure the ballast, together it holds and royal romance sets a tale of necromancy. and then the evil ruler from the west sets the floating castles nigh, empty stones tumble to endless depths and always takes the queen for himself. Photo from www.public-domain-photos.com . Author: Jon Sullivan

"Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent. Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate. Healing is mandatory. Restoration is possible." ~ Jane Rubietta I stole away my own dreams with the mistakes that I made, but I am not uncommon in that respect. The majority of the women in my circle of friends are single moms, like myself, and I'm sure the world over knows the trials and tribulations of women as us very well. Forgive my anger, but what right does that then give a stranger to disparage me? I've done the best that I could with the resources available to me, longing for more, but never asking for it. Poverty is not an easy thing to overcome, though, and I tire of the struggle of redefining my station. I wish I could turn away from the world at times, bury myself in the hot sand and bask in that ceaseless warmth, but I can't. Who would take care of my children if I did? What a saving grace they are, little human forms wrapped...

My stomach starts to coil in knots whenever I think of betraying the story of my life and placing it upon a public medium or forum where all those who care to read it may read it. I find poetry safer, much less stark than prose. Metaphor allows for obscurity, veiled and hinted meanings that are open to speculation and conclusion but remain unconfirmed. I begin to wonder, though, if I've lost something in my strides toward more complex verse. Do grief and misery become things lessened by lack of proper exposition? I hope not, for the exorcism of words is without use then, and I've failed to find relief in the telling.

I say to you, ask me at the end of life's road, if I love you, do not ask me now when there is so much of you I have yet to learn.

there are places within myself I no longer go, dark, murk filled bogs waiting to sink me in old miseries old, not new those that are new rise before me desert dunes the height of Everest feet grasping, never let go sand hills...