Unspoken Conversation
"You love me as I am, and for that grace I must be thankful - yet I can't forgive. The tenderness of you, and all you give like salt upon the wound of my disgrace. Healed without, festers an inner scar - so bitterly I mourn a truer me and fear you would not love me, were I he - the rescuer, the helper that you are." "The ugliness you show is only doubt; past failure cut deep, pain is its crust. My kindness is no trap - but the way out.... Happiness is ours - if you will trust! I love you as you are, for what I see - is all the inner man was meant to be." With the Trees Tree, weaving a net to catch the sun more years than I have walked -- Can you hold that burning glory? Can you keep the shining one? We bathe at sunset, dusty halos of desire... Tree, filtering the thieving wind through bared and jaded teeth. Who does it give your leaves to? Why does it steal your bloom? The scent surrounds us, rain lashes through... If we could bask in the wind, swallow the sun: a storm would heal us; the air; be full of golden krill. Elemental Sky has thought: "I should be Earth"; burdened itself with mountains: sullen peaks, foundering in blueness - aerial firth. Earth has dreamed of being heaven; sucks in its motley shores, frothing to expand like a pure sky the oceans seven. Element's exchange allowed, we should live in one green twilight, shape-shifting, scattering dead-petal cloud. (Ruth Asch is a poet and creative prose writer, whose work is to be found printed in several anthologies, literary journals, websites, and in her early book Reflections. She is also a part-time teacher and mother of five, living in Preston, England.)
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Anxiety
It's not so much butterflies fluttering, but corrosive bats flitting with barbed wire wings, venomous teeth gnawing at me, acid laced claws tearing at my flesh, puncturing my lungs so that the oxygen won't stick, the air claustrophobic in my throat. It's a rabid fever I can't sweat out, percolating and putrid, and its fangs won't release me. Cursed Hands The world drowns in inky gloom, stars blotted out by the weight. The Midas touch in reverse, watch as I turn everything to shit. Every nerve numbed and dead, my wrists beg for the blade but settle for the cyanide smell of the pen. Pain bleeds onto the snowy page. A scribbled out story, a biro biopic; a life both over-lived and under-lived. (Kirsty A. Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland. Her writing has appeared in anthologies such as Landfall, A Prince Tribute and Of Burgers and Barrooms.She has also featured in several journals and magazines, including The Dawntreader, Cicada Magazine, Dundee Writes and Word Fountain. Kirsty's work can also be found online on sites such as Cultured Vultures, Atrium Poetry and Nine Muses Poetry.) Wisdom Blooms
Without the need to label anything mind’s endless conversation is a flower and feelings rest on leaves scattered by wind to settle near hyacinths and water lilies. A bowl turned up in smile holds the motion of water in an unruffled pond. No need for misgivings or even for dream. Everything is just as it is. Fear of the Marketplace Each night she prayed to a different god or goddess.-----------This night the moon heard her devotions......then cast a spell with bells of silver,-----Selene’s radiance. Her plea was always-------------the same. Let me step outside----------------the door with no hesitation,-------------free of terror. She was a petrified oak-------------rooted to hardwood floors----------------branches reaching only--------------------------to wall. No skyness------------------no earth touch only window light-------------and the hum of lamps.------------------------A small, self- enclosed sanctuary-------------like prison. Each morning-------------------she waited for the slap--------------------of daily news on the doorstep------------------paper boy riding off-------------------neighbor leaving for work.-------------------Hardly breathing she would inch--------------open the door bend down--------------with curled fingers reach around----------------------the frame to nab her prize.------------------The relief of door shut--------------against the world followed by-------the sour taste of failure. Descent There were chestnuts in my soup and my heart opened wide as the Nile in summer. I was a pyramid longing, yearning crop of corn and cabbages, bored by the drama of ordinary things. I excavated bones and planets, bore children on an upturned heron wing through tumult and roar yet still I feared those soot-dark, unexamined corners within. Through tangles of twisted logic, I followed uncertainty in doubtful colors. Anxiety moldered beneath a thin veneer of calm though I stopped short of looking directly at my night terrors, avoided that deepest well of unceasing dread. An amber cloud of not knowing, no control. Until I had no choice. Until Persephone threw me into Hades' realm and took my shoes. I circled my own heart, drawn into a vortex of apparitions, archetypes and ebony snakes with searching tongues–sinking in terror's quicksand Sinking into–myself. Thoughts frozen in the seething black were freed once owned, foreboding eased as dawn’s light illuminated my mind. I heard the laughter of surrender. (Carol Alena Aronoff’s work has appeared in numerous journals/anthologies, won several prizes. She was twice nominated for a Pushcart, published a chapbook (Cornsilk) and 5 books of her poems: The Nature of Music, Cornsilk, Her Soup Made the Moon Weep, Blessings From an Unseen World and Dreaming Earth’s Body.) Gentle As Water
In a stream Flowing over hardened Hearts and minds To slowly show them the way. Taking little bits of them To carry them To the vast ocean Where life started. Then returning to the highest peeks of Soul Where I wash down the old paths again To show The way As I always do. In cycles, I come and go, To bring everyone back To where we began again. Eventually we shall be whole. Even when seem as hard and unwavering As a glacier, Know, That in ten years A frozen river Will carry an entire boulder A mile. I might seem as hard as stone At times, But really I'm flowing At a pace The stone can relate with. No one will be left out When Carried By the flow of compassion. (Marcus Severns has published in several magazines and journals including Merak Magazine, Duane's PoeTree, Everyday Poems, and MadnessMuse Press. However his most notable accomplishment from writing was winning 1st place in a regional short story competition for Southeast TN EMC. He currently resides in east Tennessee.) |
The Beautiful Space-
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