The Woman in Blue

winter_time_sadness_by_ichigopaul23-d5jtwjj
Winter time sadness by ichigopaul23 via deviantart.com

 

Dressed in a cloak was this woman in blue,
She beckoned me and whispered,”Oh dear little Sue”,
“Yes milady”, I reply blushing under the summer gaze,
Her green eyes causing me a mezmerising daze,

“Do bring me the book, it is by the window,”
she said pointing with her gloved laced hand,
I dusted the soils of my frock and stood in command,
I recall that tattered book, red-leathered and old,
She never let me near it but I did as I was told,

Then I realized I was but a mere child of 8 so careless, naive, not-a-care and free,
Dismissing the absurd thought, I ran by the glistening sea,
I cross the lawn and into the house seeing the prize I seek at heart,
But before I could seize it and touch it, I awoke with a start,
Who was she and who was I, these questions still bothers me so,
I dreamt it so vividly not too long ago.

 

Full Moon

glowing_full_moon_by_temporalvisions-d6a8xdl
Glowing Full Moon by Temporalvisions via deviantart.com

 

 

I see you peeking thru the curtains at my window pane,
Marveled at your beauty not an ounce of vain.
A special treat tonight you showed up thirteen times this year,
Glorious full moon, you are shining so bright and oh! so clear!

Sometimes I wish I could touch you, and know the secrets you hold,
Of life, death and inbetweens this world has somewhat told.
I’m surely not alone in bathing in your rich rays delight,
Meditating in silence to be one with your reflected light.

Faceless to those busy in their lives’ pressure and goals,
I wish they’d take the time to revel in you so they’d know their true roles.
After all her fullness happens once in some 28 days,
You might never know the magic of watching the beauty of the full moon’s gaze.
 

Suffer

The last of her love demands to be felt,
A candle of hope she fears may melt.
I watched her quietly reading her story marked across her face,
A claimed victim of dominance has fallen from grace.
For once her innocence meets the end,
Her prayer for death a luxury, few can't comprehend.

f4fa85a5179e0f3ec124e2c6e5884130-d4cyvbg
Suffer by bellabrooke via deviantart.com


Angry Dish

anger_by_darkpi-d4fz68o
Anger by darkpi via deviantart.com

 

I had anger for breakfast
such cold bitter truth
Antagonising by virtue
from my head down to my foot
My heart, my lungs held prisoner
in the tightly siezed chest
Doubts shrouds the owner
of these body’s silent protest

It pains, I must vent
There is no other way out
Should I opt for inevitable chaos
to explode with a shout
I knew I had the power to choose
the wholesome nutritious dish
But I gobbled it quick, the fatty unhealthy
How stupid, I blame, my irrational wish

Regret comes forth
a burning aftertaste
Oh! Anger you fooled me
I hope I won’t  make haste
The next time, I remind myself
to remember this rage’s punch
Moving on, I am famished
I wonder what’s in store for lunch?

A Stranger

You said “hey”
I say “hi”
Nice to meet you passing by
At least I thought that’s meant to happen
As we sat there

On the soiled ground
The wind in our faces
High up at this view
In the sea of others faces
Grouped or paired not we
We just sat there

You’re drinking a bottle
I’m the drinking the same
But let it sit inside my bag
For fear of conversation
We just sat there

“Do I know you?” I wonder
Or should I begin to know you
Watching you at the corner of my eye
You curl the side of your lips
As we sat there

“There.”

il_570xN.227644812
Courtesy of Vickie Wade via easy.com

 

Yesterday.
He points towards the valley afar.
“There,” his eyes gleaming. “It is there.”
Is it green?
Is it safe?
He smiles.
I doubt.

“But Papa,” I said.
“Ah! You are only 9!”, he laughs.
I hold his hand tight.

Today.
I point towards the valley afar.
“There.” I echoed his words. “It is there.”
Is it large?
Is it kind?
I smile.
He doubts.

“But Grandpa,” he says.
“Ah! You are only 9!”, I laugh.
I hold his hand tight.

The Puppet

puppet_on_strings_by_bipolarpsychedellics-d3ihgyo
Puppet on Strings via deviantart.com

“When is that log coming?”
“On it’s way”, the puppet said.
“When?”, she pressed.
“When the moon is full, when the leaves roll dry, when the crickets sing no more.”
At that, she sat still and went to bed.

“When is that log coming?”
“On it’s way,” the puppet said.
“When oh when?” she pressed.
“When the moon shines it’s glory, when the leaves dry up, when the crickets go to sleep for winter”
Satisfied momentarily, she slumbers.

Days, months elapsed.

“When is that log coming?”
Down came the log upon her skull.
“It has come”, said the puppet.
She mumbles her last breath.
“On this red moon, on this dried autumn, in the silence of this night”.