Photo by Adam Dustus
They say the sky’s the limit
But the ocean, yet your sky
Mirror, mirror
Glittering bright
The crystals on horizon blue
The winds upon your back.
Rest now ye weary masts
Float awhile upon your dreams
Soon enough the current
Will carry you home again.
This is a poem for One Shoot Sunday, from the poets that brought you the ever-popular One Stop Poetry. The poem is written in response to the picture prompt posted above. Picture prompt is by Adam Dustus.
Star-crossed lovers lie
Snoring in the sand
Waiting on the rose-tipped caress
Of dawn’s fair light,
But the sun catches like
Little crystals in the waters
And they are sleeping through
The glitter and the glare.
The runner’s smile
Warms the streets as they rise
Amidst the shadows of red glare—
Early to rise
And early to rest,
Not like the frantic typing around
Those battered tables—
Early to rise
And early to work,
A desperate cry for more coffee is
As much a sign as these
Gleaming starlets
Carried in the sunlight,
Shimmering in the haze.
Dew drops beneath the leaves,
The covers dip beneath the waves
Of majesty and trees
Swaying in the breeze.
Birdsong, so ponderous in sleep
Uplifted in the daylight—
Just keep away those woodpeckers.
The body screams,
The mind elates
To greet this
Morning Elegance.
I woke up early this morning and literally rolled out of bed with this one on my mind. If it was related to dreams I had last night, then it’s probably a good thing I don’t remember them. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy:
Nothing is as it seems—
The old die old,
The young die young,
One perpetuates the other
In waves of maddening
Disillusion not withstanding—
We are players and audience
The stage ours to watch
And ours to play.
But where is the director?
The play plays on in
Such maddening discourses,
There is a plot twist somewhere—
Is this how it was written?
Read somewhere that parents should
They should never have to bury their children,
But the children fight their wars
And the children fight each other
And the old have lived it all.
The mind reflects in odd ways—
Always they remember the old days as better
Days, but they are gone.
Where is the proof?
The mind is fickle, it remembers
What it wants to remember
So the monologue seems better—
There is no difference.
The old are tired.
All they want to do is to lie down,
But they are watching and waiting—
Am I to die?—
But the young are restless
And in their roaming the world
Every moment and monument is theirs—
But they hasten to sleep
And they do not arise,
And the old weep and laugh in terror.
The Waking Den 