ladygwen123 Poetry (72)

"peace! WHERE ART THOU?" I SCREAMED.
Peace said "Here I am, on the other side of hurt."
"What are you doing so far away?"
"How long the journey depends on you."
I am but a beacon of the troubled mind,
The white lining on the stony ridge of chaos,
Beckoning the soul to seek itself.
I am a gift you must seek me out.
But the mote is the hurdle you must leap.
So get jumping!"
"And so, getting through the mire of loss gives
You the practice of acquiring peace?"
"Yes, tap your Spirit to sustain,
Until the journey ends.
And loss and hurt fold into Peace."

The weather-beaten gate, with its
Squeaking,rusty hinge,
Crying in the wind, hung like a one armed man hanging
From the Gallows, waits for
A caring hand to touch.
And I, a dying bramble bush,
With corkscrew limbs,
Sit beside a pool, stagnant from the
Ravages of time,
The only sign of life, a thorn bush
Left from the day of the Rose.
Slender birds balance on a single limb,
Necks arched, dead eyes cast on swirling cones of dust
No feathers pink, conveying to all who passed,
What they were in their time.
once a home, now a crypt, the Garden has but a single visitor,
A pale light from a rocky sphere,
Passing swiftly in the night.,
Daring not to linger by day, the sun recuits a single
master cloud tomask its journey.
What life could bloom if light
Would take the tme to find,
to shine on Vines in The Garden of the moon.

Rough, hands, gentle touch
Warm mouth, soft kiss, cool, moist flesh.
Love personified

Freezing rain, wet boots.
No socks, mittens lost, nose froze
Icicles for hair.

Volcano lava
Burning charcoal fired up
Dry ice cubes in hand

He fancied himself a Garden King
But seeds were sown long before his arrival.
He tried enticing growth with tools of past plantings
That he horded hanging on the nails in his soul.
He teased the white coned lily
And smirked at the Red Velvet Rose.
He never felt the growing tool of tragedy that
Seduces the tears necessary to quench the thirst of seeds.
Arrogance reared its head as he danced in the streets shouting
"I am the Garden King".
He fever carried the tool of voice,
With tender tone, to nurture.
He never hefted the tool of silence
Needed for selfhood.
His soul ached,
To stir,
To caress
but empty souls produce no touch,
That prompting tickle that induces a zest for life.
And the seedlings of the white coned Lily
And the Red Velvet Rose, with her message of love,
Wait,
For the rustle of growing tools,
Humble steps from the Garden King.

Frogs jumpover things
But not a truck, squish, squish, squish!
Frog legs ,yum, yum, yum

As trees render leaves in Fall,\
Magic eyes watch Red Balloons bumping blue skies
While playground swings grow large spikes
And the sky is void of high flying kites.
pigeons mute their coo.
Gone is the man with his humoring bell
And all the slides go straight to hell.
Befor red balloons bumped blue skies
Tthe world tasted big
Appetites broad, smacking with gusto,
Pies of sod,
We painted the world we wished for,
Then the brush snapped in two
And Red Balloons bumping blue skies,
Mutated t a grayish hue. .
To melt the spikes,
to taste the world,
To hear the humoring bell
Unlike warm blood seeking a wind
We need only tap the child within.

Grey stones resting peaceful cupped in a cradle of grass
As green as purest youth and a slope of Emerald as your crown
beneath a sky of blue.
A single cloud dares to loft above your cross,
A symbol of your solemn life.
Standing stones of lives, having passed your way
Reveal, in stance, their peaceful journey to a time painted by my soul
From images of a friend from eons ago again
When they will stand instead of stone,
Never hearing death's moan.
They shall fill their arms with Heather
And Daffodils will flood the land,
As you remember well,
Yellow as a Summer sun and gentle as a prayer.
The only difference then, you will see me there,
For now your in my heart Santes Melangel
You RE A picture in my mind,
iI roll the the Knowles amid fields of green,
Only knowing joy
And travel back when my friend was just a boy.

once I opened doors
That stood in pairs.
I blazed trails that were not there.
Roamed where never man had been,
Round the world and back again.
But there dwelt within my soul
An unobtrusive valour then.
I touched the stars on bended knee
And swam, with grace, the raging Sea.
Then came the waiting season,
A time that valour found its way
To other realms
And I could not find a
Door and travelled well worn paths
And swam in lakes instead of Sea,
Waiting, searching till valour found me.



i

Autumn's brass and cherry red
On your mountains small feet did tread.
Happy times in Fall were they
When the child and stepped in play
Slapping footprints along the way
We strolled your hillsides moss green glens,
Never t opass this way again.
Weakened fingers tickled a Birch , never seeing
Dead bark fall to the earth. That lifeless hide
Decayed in its youth sized my heart with reality's truth
of this final journey for the child and I and
The so few days when the child must die.
Now alone by the river, beyond the wood
Where me and the child, together once stood,
Ifeel the cold from the Autumn stream
While my head, on the trunk of a Birch, does lean
The river sooths with musical rhyme,
An angered spirit and blistering soul
By calming its waters and easing its flow
Even the woods are silent this moment in time
Even the Jay is quiet today
Perched at attention, beak towards the sky, As though in respect for the child and I.
Even a squrriel, white and grey
sits on his haunches as though to pray
His little hands folded, little head lowered his fingers
grasping a tiny white flower.
Then a screech from the Jay, a hallowed farewell,
Like the haunting sound of the passing bell!













i

November's wind bold and callous as the yard she raped

Blew with scorned fury, as though the gods ignored
Her right to whip freely round the seven seas
And the midnight toll drew near
on the bleak and lusty night of
All Saints Eve. She had never walked the yard
As she did then, cringing with each step
From the rub of bone on bone,
Milling its pound of flesh with each grind'
She did browse the yard beneath the sun,
No fear of finding horror
Just bits of passing life and sorrow.
But now her swing lamp light sprayed
The slanting stones, the bawling winds slapping flesh
A reminder of unwanted guests.
But breaching through a wall of wind
She lugged a heavy heart to the grave of Lorna Lynn.
On her knees numbing fingers traced the words,
"Only one and twenty so young a maiden lost".
The winds began to die descending to a breeze,
But the melancholy figure had at once began to freeze.
And now on All Saints Eve the knelling bells do tell
Of a mother, frozen in a Winter wind
Next to the grave of Lorna Lynn.