ladygwen123 Poetry (72)

Paste the wings back on flies.
Laugh when the baby cries.
Sack in place, Ivory Tusks

Is this the Soul at Dusk.?
From apathy to empathy.
To love of you instead of me
Prevent war.
Live in peace.
Care for the land we lease.
This is the penitent soul at Dusk.

[zHis falling tears are like thunder,
\Yet only heard by one
But the world would never know he whimpered
knowing less that he had lost.
Mans worth? His power to weep.
We see hurt on the faces of those we love.
A false smile, a slight facial twitch from pain
concealed, digested by their soul
We scream for answers we do not have,
To questions they never ask.
Mans worth, His power to weep.
Their tears are bred from independence
But we are not gods.
Our worth? Our power to weep
holding the weeping silent they scream ino themselves
And in their blindness, from tears held back ,
They see our helplessness,
Then their worth is found in their power to weep,
For us!
But their final thought? "My tears must never reach the light"
Man's worth? His power to weep for man.

While grey days, with sultry air and rain
Alter moods of cheerful folk
Autumn days and Winter chill,
With bunchy leaves and snowy hills
Replace the sombre moods of men,
With Harvest moon and Christmas hymns.
But lurking near, no place on calendar
wall, beckoning to all
Resides the ghost of final season,
Ever present, ever teasing
When sense of rhyme snd reason fade to black
And genes attack,
Able Sable Dunmor, without staff or legion
Awaken dormant dreams of life
Postponing final Season.

Chiselled by nature from volcanic rock
Where land mests the Sea
She yawns at old Poseidon
in a picture I cannot be.
But I know of the secrets she holds,
Buried treasure and smugglers deeds
And a place I could lay my head
On a cloth of golden fleece.
Then the sea crashes in kissing her floor,
While I dream of Atlantis and stoving Whales.

His cradle was hewn from English trees
And all his roughneck days made time for heir adoration.
His backyard was a playground f0r loud dreams
And remembrances.
Now well worn shoes track through fields, That lend their way to hills rooted in his soul.
Thoughts of when he wore a warrior's shield making
Battlefields proud, invade.
Remembered are secrets buried long ago with his armor\

sits easy at the hearth of the Warrior in his smile.
His strength is renewed when in the presences of the talking stones
That spoke of Wisdom before His first cry
Ipon a resting hill, lakes appear water, once red from
The screams of desired Freedom.
and Battle sowards dipped in hopful Baptism.
He sees now that battlefields have returned to the green of their youth,free now from planed chos,Today his battlefields made proud are growing seeds of life.
A nd now he no longer steps through slaughtered bone and flesh.












upon a hillside

They met at planting time
She furrowed deep the rows
Chanting lays of love
He wailed tales of woe.
She worked an easy pace, sowing seedless grapes,
Green, translucent, sweet
He a bitter, purple grape with acrid meat!
The sweet flourished, a taste as honey to the lips, the flavour of forever
His serpentine rows grew a crocked vine breeding murky pellets
,Bitter as the Lime.
And then her seedless greens shrivelled in his shadow
And became a rotting brown,
No more they could be found!
She gave such luscious greens, He a bitter meat, thick with peal.
He spends a lot of time now ravishing the vines To find
The seedless greens
to press to lips,
To taste the flavour of forever
Only finding dry-rot ropes the
Offspring of his Wormwood heart,
Now crumbling like sawdust in the wind.

found them by the Sea on a day I went to watch
Tthe whales at play in the rain.
They stared at me from a resin cage,
That sat on a tilted shelf in a tiny shop
Where tourist bought bits of the Sea to
Placet in their sea- less homes, bright
Red coral from fathoms deep or a sea shell housing
The eerie moan of the Sea for its lost dwellers.
I cupped the tiny paper-weigh into my in my hand,
Gently raising it to my eyes, my now inflated eyes their
Azure sky and I saw eyes unfettered unlike the fate of pearls,
I knew they were not real yet there seemed to be a smile on the
mother watching young.
And I thought “How much freedom in so little space.”
It was a day I went to Sea to watch the Whales at play
In the rain but I found that freedom is shared by the mind and the soul
wither there be no way in or no way out.

South South West of Tralee,
The most western part of the land
For thousands of years people lived there
With flocks of sheep on a hillside
And each had a cow of his
own while , in unfertile land
Potatoes were grown.
A place that writers called home.
Never did pen kiss asper so sweet
As when it’s writers wrote of sea and
of gull
And eyes that stared through windows of lace
Absorbing the rhythm of life’s easy pace
Firers blazed
all year round
Coooking the fish and Lobsters they found
Worldly contact was eight miles away
Over a mountain to Dingle Bay
And never a one did ever stay
For the islands called Herchildren back home
to the gull the sea and to play.

She walked to the schoolhouse every day and every day
zshe wore the dress.
She walked through the Naarrows, past
The bulfield beyond where the wildflowers grew
The dress ws one of two she owned the other Sundays best
.She walked with head lowered missing the world growing around her.
On poetry day she stood before her mates
trying to balance pride and shame..
The dress hung heavy, each check a burdensome weight,
She struggled, trying to maintain her dignity.
One day she ran from the schoolhouse beyond where
The wildflowers grew and beyond to Jenny pond
She threw the dress into the pond, the grave for gingham dresses
the weeds digesting the Gingham dress
She resched for a stick laying in the sun.\
zand a smallfigure could be seen in a white cotton slip
Skipping along the dirt road drawing pictures of freedom on the earth’

Evil struck the Amish folk
Invading schoolhouse space.
Killing all inside, leaving not a trace
What was said but "let it go let them have their spoils
We must do our planting And multiply our toil."
For those who lost a child
Their grief is far from mild.
The little arms that held them close
Are now far away
And tears are shed in secret
Hoping heir at play.
But evil sits in comfort,
Its evil deeds condoned.
It must no be allowed
to run ramped where it roams
Those we love are sacred
They must treated so
To do them right is extreme might
Weshould not let it go.
The Amish should have made a stand
And taken things in hand
We never asked for this
It Was just allowed in.
what is that we fear,
A no win game
Or do we really want what we might gain.
If its war so let it be
Letting evil reign is not thinking free

Birds in flight over Flasket Iles
Mimic exiles fearing to flee.
In circular orbits,
Gracefully spun,
They travel in twos
Never one.
above the water, atop the brine
Made salty from the tears of time.
Gull's toes script on water farewell cries
Their Warning of a freedom sought not so free.
Somber hues of a setting sun
replace the hope of morrow' s fun.
No boats rowing to Blasket Isle,
No Kittwakes springtime young.,
Now two people only one

Midnight twigs cored the birch
illuminating wooded church.
In solem thought I wondered not
the chill of Winter's glow.
And never did a coldness in my bones I feel
I never felt the wind.
Taut sheets of icy snow
Sliced in two trees
that would not move
Through spiralling cones of snow,
pirouettes in polar air
I snared the glare of Wolfe n's stare
My wooded church his sacred lair
Through assure eyes my life did pass
When came the leap of lunging cur,
With rippling folds of downey fur
Then a lashing wind,
echoing notes from arequims hymn
Distant bays, like chanting prayers
Easing the glare of the watchman's stare