Marbles and bells
time
worn

listen and feel
how they travel along the crease

to iron the fabric left by hunger
by war and irreverence

magic to air and land
dirty and dented hope

tumbled and warn
with tint of frolic and peace

gather a treasure from one small boy’s pocket
then listen any Sunday

i turn my face
up
to the sun
to the Light

and laugh
.-= elizabeth´s last post … feeding fear =-.

At the intersection of Hawthorne and Linden Avenues
Memory bounces in the unnaturally yellow tennis ball

70′s era girl scout uniform dangles from a red hanger
“On my honor, I will try” lives in the “11″ troop label as

Death in red leaves fall from the Maple’s aging arm
Her fingers check my pulse, ears listen, eyes

praying for anything except this spacious silence
Without a pillow, I beg for the next ending, anything

except… Paradox, its meeting point where the exchange occurs
for meanness is them, not me, my job is to stay me like a

barren tree, leafless, somehow full of protective life at
my feet, grounded, rooted, below the path separated by

Hunger’s emptiness isn’t an insistent Audrey 2 “Feed me!!!”
Wrap it in whatever meaning you elect I notice, I see

her hair is a slip knot riding snugly against her neck
Claw foot pedestal table holds up her elbows I watch

wondering, curious, last night’s question still hanging
like the uniform dangling from the plastic red hanger

anachronism, out of sorts, out of time, a blizzard
of thoughts cover my sand buried toes

my legs, looking like marble reflecting moon rays
I settle back, tucking my red purse beneath my head

Someone will cover me with a colorful quilt when I am cold

Love, Hiro
.-= Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #6 =-.

Inchcailloch

Before my face,
the butterflies,
dancing between sunshine and sunshade,
share in the joy of each step.
soar in the rise of each dawn.
sway in the breath of each breeze.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.

Beneath bare feet,
the rich dark earth,
malleable with persistent mists,
responds to the shape of each sole.
replies to the depth of each print.
relates to the height of each hope.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.

Beyond my flaws,
Kentigerna,
offering sweet, serene sanctuary,
bestirs in the sleep of my soul.
begins in the breadth of my being.
belongs in the flame of my love.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.
.-= amypalko´s last post … A Birthday Less Ordinary =-.

street lamps reflecting
in the gathered rain below
pockets of water flow
into one another

the wind stirs
the maples trees
from their slumber
quiet songs
winding
their way
through

we are waiting
the rain and I
for the morning

waiting for the light

to spill slowly
across the sky
until the last trace
of night
fades

~

la tyson