Gone...and...forgotten...

Will you feel me,

when you no longer touch my skin?

Will you see me when you

no longer look in my eyes?

Will you hear me,

as I softly cry myself to sleep?

Will you miss me,

when I silently disappear?

Will you remember my smile,

as it once lit up this room?

Will you recall my voice,

when it no longer speaks your name?

Will there be something in the back of your mind,

that pulls you back to this place?

Will you wonder where

I have gone, when I am gone?

Will you regret,

 that you took me for granted?

Will you forget,

that I feel everything you say?

Will my memory touch

any part of the world where you now live?

Will my role

in all of this be done?

Will there be pieces of me that linger with you?

like the taste that stays on your tongue?

Or will you simply rise from the table,

an empty plate left behind?

*about the way we move through the lives of others*

For dVersepoets.com    OpenLinkNight ~ Week 22

The Essence of Grace

She has laid herself out on the table before me

and I silently take her in.

Stripped bare of any mask or cloak

she shows me into her soul.

There are things in there that are crying

there are things in there that scream.

Yet she carefully tends them and feeds their need

 with a gentle, loving hand.

She is fighting battles with demons

with voices that are louder than hers.

Yet she quietly sings herself lullabies

with words of comfort and care.

The voices are bitter and angry

with hateful things to say.

They are trying to take her with them

as misery loves company.

She is brave and strong in the face of this

and I sit and watch her with awe.

Standing beautiful and tall with head held high

her light shining out through it all.

I can only think as I watch her

that this is the essence of grace.

She stands naked and defenseless

yet all I see is strength.

*dVerse Meeting the Bar: Writing Emotion*

The Letting Go

Trapped in the quiet, stinking places

where loneliness breeds contempt.

Caught in the visceral sounds of aching

where none of this will end.

Words unspoken, barren, stricken,

a deftly well played hand.

Silence whispered, shoulders turned

a castle made of sand.

There is nothing here, to nourish

that starving aching scream.

No echo lingers, no song once sung

no things that I once dreamed.

I hunger, I bleed, I scratch at stones,

at doors, at keys all turned.

I cry, I long, I pace this floor

I pay homage to the pyre, burned.

There are broken remnants laid out in rows

on display like pieces of art.

I pick them up tenderly, touch them again

and dash them upon the rocks.

Their time has come, their time has gone

their lifespan a flicker in time.

The dust not yet settled, the rust not yet stained

these things are no longer mine.

The letting go, the giving in

the surrender of a raging war.

The casting off, the last shred of doubt

this isn’t mine anymore.


*I'm not generally a fan of rhyming
 but this was what wanted to be said...*

 

The Wishing Chair

Guideposts, street signs,

lines drawn on maps.

Distance travelled, lessons learned

visible in the blisters on my feet.

Motion has been constant, endless

needing something more.

Searching, aching, wandering blindly

without anywhere to go.

Never enough, am I ever enough

for this to be where I stand.

Needing so much, I am bleeding so much

that the lines on the map are now blurred.

I have no idea where I’m going now

only memories of where I’ve been.

The only path visible leads me away

I can’t go back there again.

The wheels are spinning wildly

as clouds of smoke fill the air.

The anticipation of scenery’s change

sitting still I am riddled with pain.

In this desperation, this moment of need

to do something but no knowing what.

This is the time to quietly stop

and silently sit back down.

Cradle myself in the moment

in the comfort of this wishing chair.

Wrap myself up in its warm soft embrace

and sit for this moment in time.

Maybe the wandering can stop for awhile

until I know what I’m looking for.

Until I can fill the emptiness that tears at my heart

until I can call the place I am, home.

  * For dVerse Poets   OpenLinkNight ~ Week 21 *

~The power of flight~

I wish that I had wings,

I wish that I could fly.

I wish that I could rise up above myself

and the space in which I exist.

I wish that I could move from here to there

at the speed of light and take myself from this place.

I wish I could magically change the scenery

and in that, my point of view.

I wish I could take to the air, wings widely spread

and soar among the clouds.

I wish I could travel through time without worry

as to how I would get here from there.

I wish I was free, feathered, in flight

unbound by earthly restraint.

I wish I had the power, and in reality I do

to change the course of this path.

To cast myself up to the wild unknown

without fear of where I might land.

To boldly go to places unseen

without knowing what to expect.

I tattooed a feather onto my arm

to remind me and I sometimes forget.

That the scenery changes, the places and names

but the power to be is mine.

*For dVersepoets.com ~ Poetics: falling into magic potion – we’re going Comic~

This is more of about having superpower than being a superhero.

Out of tune

The feeling of irrelevance as sharp

as a tightly wound string.

The distance further denoting

the broken feeling that I have.

The gentle strumming of coiled metal

is strange comfort.

The scrape and scratch

as my fingers slide up the neck.

A sad and lonely melody

a poet’s dying heart.

A grieving echo,

a hollow, chanting refrain.

A wailing voice, cracked and worn

a breathless aching whisper.

Words unwound as feelings connect

into rhythms and patterns of rhyme.

Sing, sing, as if it were all you had left

of a raw and bleeding heart.

My hands as one with wood and steel

the euphony of something real.

My song is yet written the tune yet unnamed

still I play from the depth of my soul.

Fingers blistered and bleeding

as I search to find my voice.

Snowstorm

Never slow, a draft or a breeze

never a warning that it’s coming.

Never that tingle, of a chill to the skin

just the blast of a gale force wind.

The frost that settles into my bones

as my body tenses in response.

The ice that seals up the windows and doors

takes me prisoner in its frozen embrace.

I crawl into the smallest corner of the room

curling myself into a ball.

Muscles tensing, to ward off the cold

constricting the warm flow of blood.

I drift off to sleep for a second or two

and awaken to shattering glass.

The window has broken, the snow and ice

forcing their way into my room.

Seeking me out in the safe place I hide

they are trying to bury me alive.

Filling this room at the blinding speed of light

I can no longer see where I am.

I am covered completely by the weight of the snow

I am paralyzed and freezing and numb.

I have to start moving, despite the odds

this is not the way I will die.

* this was prompted by dVersepoets.com FormForAll – Poetic Devices: Image, Symbol, Metaphor, Allegory*

~It's a little tale about the power of fear~