Haiku #2
Projecting your soul(s).
It doesn’t matter at all
We remain complete.
Light Remains
Sun’s rays on water
Rolling in.
She lowers herself
Into the water.
Day is done
And night begins.
Once Sun,
Now Moon.
Light remains.
Morning hour 1
This morning soothes me
A bouquet of fresh words
A fountain of calm energy
I could fly from here
Or softly float
Greeting the day knowing
Time and source are one.
I so easily caught
between
Right and left
Up and down
Early and late
Now soar to timelessness
One hour stretching to the next
Reaching into infinity
My face ages
My soul does not
My words carried on the winds of time
Their power and strength hold me
Tenderly caressing me
I allow them to float me away
Until I the time traveler
Becomes suspended
Lost
Yet ultimately completely found
She
I
She is goddess to a time that worships the deity
She is slave to the temples that bore divinity
She was brought to heights of golden towers
She was beheld for seasons of heavy showers
She procured mist and wind and fortunes
She contains secrets from seas and dunes
She was religion preoccupied
As hearts stood mystified
II
She caused war among nobles and reverted amnesty
She was bought and sold upon gold and silver in forgery
She was at palaces, ruler and slave to her creation
She was valued in torn shrouds and admiration
She had her faith denounced to betray
She fought for truth and went astray
She was history that lied
And souls hardly satisfied
III
She was regained, won in pride and prudence
She was reclaimed in humble condolence
She grew and formed shackles around freedom
She was utterly unconvinced of wisdom
She fought yet still and was honored victor
She stood aloof as he towered still as her corrector
She was forming her side
In a strangled glide
IV
She is all known, all fought for, all wrongly accused of right
She is love and hatred, among her peace and fight
She is now higher than once before in her time
She is no longer of course, a purpose divine
She is still in a corner though at war with creator
She is still denied creation by her hefty dictator
She is still a side in fight
For it is an ever required light.
V
She shall be who she was created to ever be
She is communion with Creator, were it her decree
She might be lost to noise submerged until now
But she shall forever rise to her temple, ask not how
For all bounty, all beauty, all perfection all fault is her
Wait, there will be all welcomed unrest she shall stir
Yet, love is where she loses
For it is always love she chooses
Forever means forever
There it is, that moment in time,
An instant too brief, like the blink of an eye.
A sound so subtle, a whispered breath,
Brushed on my cheek, like a petal’s touch.
Turning to see what is not there,
I catch the scent of tussled hair.
And a warmth, not sunlight,
Not breath, not much
But the flow of our hearts, our lives, our essence
Folded into the space between us, in senescence.
© 2014 D. Edward Croy
Fingers
One: I am thumbing through life.
Two: I point at you.
Three: Anger personified.
Four: Ringed with gold.
Five: In therapy for feeling so small.
Second Post: A Voting Poem
A Voting Poem
1: History
They fought long and hard
Fought to be seen and heard,
100 years ago
Equality a dream,
They strove to make real.
2: Vote the First
Now I am part of history,
Now I can make a difference
I place my mark alongside those that came before –
Feeling their weight,
And their courage.
3: Why?
He asks why, questions the difference it makes.
He is one of the elite – straight and white and male,
But he too has his battles; I tell him
If no-one makes their mark, just one cross,
We can blame no others but ourselves.
4: Just History Repeating Itself
The social media – the one only that matters now
Posts photos, 50, 70, 100 years apart,
Points to similar poses, dress, expressions,
Misses the full picture –
History repeats, the fight continues, because we do not learn.
5: Not Our Fight?
I have but one fight of my own,
Do not always need to stand up and be counted
But I am part of the human race,
And equality should be for all.
If we do not stand together, we fall apart.
Bridge of our Hearts
The bridge from my heart to yours,
seems bruised and worn,
painted with our tears,
engraved with our years.
Under a passageway,
where I lie covered,
unseen by the world,
emerging from rushing rivers,
unveiling ourselves to the world.
Our bones, mere ashes,
our blood, the sweetest wine,
holes carved in our bodies,
where each wishes to reside.
Resign to the meadows of goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace.
Follow me if you you are willing,
leave only a trace of our secluded repose,
a window to that memory,
a clandestine place and time,
long ago,
when wishing was having,
and we became true.
Suspending our love in bridges over troubled waters.
Dream Journals
When I first started dreaming that you
never left
you still believed you hadn’t
that partial inclusion entitled you to exist entirely
and somehow the thought of you made it to the top of the stack,
every time
The dreams were warm despite
taking place in an imaginary January
because I was running from your abandonment while carrying you
the additional one hundred and twenty seven pounds of dead weight and
you pretending not to blame me, anymore
I get it
once I became the monster under your bed, and the shadow that a
nightlight makes against the hallway walls
I could never not be just that
even if I slept beside you and we painted happy adjectives on my body
Even in my faintest whimper
you still heard me roar
in the back of your head,
you knew there was no cure for rabies.
The dreams stopped being wonderlands
(although it played in the background
in low resolution)
and began to mimic bus terminals
Our sunrises began to shape themselves into yellow tinted lamps
that collect flies and mosquitoes outside of train stations and twenty
four hour convenience stores
they flicker and die every few months
I swear I’ll replace them
but I’m outgrowing the experience and all of your gifted sweaters
yarn cocoons
I wrapped myself in their knitting and you,
thinking I would come out
still yours
like that was the thing that made me beautiful
in my new dreams
we hold hands at the bus stop
you ask me what song I’m listening to,
but I wipe you off my shoes in the grass
__ar.
Honest – Precept
Practice honest for real
Example what you uphold
The authentic shines…
Seema Sahoo ©