A Dreamer

Eclipse by Jie Ma

Fastened, bound together in covers of leather
hard hide, eyes wide, shoulders slumped,

reflecting upon a chair.

A libretto begins, flying through the air - soft

notes, colliding, orchestrated beats. Authors’

pounding pens in-repertoire, dancing

dramatic flares.

Liberation of the pews, the congregation,

spilling balconies - spewing a parade of

ticker tape, left floating in the air.

Ostentatious, this conspicuous view - a world

beyond the rest. A masterpiece of a dreamer

upon a bench, a joy within his view,

in a world, without a care.

Freedom of the Sands

One Stop Poetry Sunday Picture Prompt Challenge.

30 January 2011



Do not bring your weight

to bear upon me

nor dig your soul

into the fibers of who I am

If you allow me the

freedom of the sands

then I shall rise to you

and together

we shall walk

step by step

as one

Can you even imagine

Can you build upon a soul
Can you wrap it in your arms
Can you even imagine…

Hmmm, such charms of life.

An aura…seen around her
A glow, from deep within
A beauty, well beyond the skin
Can you even imagine…

What shall I do?

Golden hair - soft of stare
Gentle lips, caressing my despair
I slip away, complete dismay
I have nothing left… to say.

I simply can’t imagine.

… I simply, can’t imagine.

Can you?

My saturated stems

Although my roots are deep,
my mourning leans towards death;
drown these sorrows on the eve of a
silver lake, so I may sleep amongst my
earthen friends - long since gone,
to rest.

I reach with withered sticks,
tangled limbs towards grey
skies, crying - bare trunk,
once a soul, now left -
alone.

Swirling underneath,
such currents rage
this calm appearance,
surface, but a stage.

Twisted roots
Gnarled,
at the base
I can no longer
see ahead,
nor wish
to face.

My saturated stems.

Sweet Reverie

Reverie with glittering lights
shimmering turquoise,
blazers…. finesse, and pink of night.

Cognac drenched lips
sweet whispers of Havana
with hand rolled tips, leaving
swirls of Hemingway in the air.

Succulent dreams
taste between golden seams
these delectable treats
with the Cuban beats…
trumpet his Armstrong Jazz.

Comfortable, in his sweet reverie.

Submitted for One Stop Poetry - One Shoot Photography Sunday (Picture Prompt)! 23 January 2011

Tears in a Jar

Tears in a jar,
a glass bubble, of life
these shattered emotions,
and fragments of fears
splinters dripping
from his timbered years.

Left feeling worn, old and grained.
He tries to hide these searing pains
Vulnerability - weaknesses…
Emotions, used for others gain,
or so… he fears.

This reflection of past,
and his withered old days
sap pouring, as he lays…
humbly, shedding tears.

Crashing waves, smashing foes
With a ladle in mind, he desperately bales
Scooping tales from his head
From the bottom of his toes.

On the shelf, just left of sane
Sits a bottle, tucked away,
deep in his brain
A jar full of tears
a glass bubble, of life
these shattered emotions,
and fragments…
fragments of fears

Right beside that jar of tears
Sits a false smile, and he’s used it for years
But look deep in his eyes
and you’ll see what I see
that old glass jar, now filled to the brim,
with his emotional tears
And floating on top, all that scum
Thick and deep, and layered
from all those years - of tears.

One Breath at a Time

This weight of life, bearing down
Soundless in such pressure found
upon his chest, barely a breath -
he takes - laying on this hill of life
a heap of a mess, he’s built, and
piled it on his very own chest.

One hundred stories, he lay beneath
arms raised in why, tears streaked
flat of man, his life squeezed out
unbearable weight, this terrible clout.

It’s clear, he has surely lost his way,
His realization, late of day.
Silence in the sounds, nothing left around
This seems to be the way; left thinking,
he has little left to say.
No breath, with life upon his chest
He gave up, not wishing to be found.
…..

She looks up to see him sitting there
An old man without a peep, no tales
Nor does he speak, nothing but tears
Stained upon his withered cheeks.

Sitting by his side, looking deep into his eyes
She clasps his hand, and warmly says
One breath at a time, one blue sky a day
Let’s sit a bit - and wash away that grey.

After a while, she turned to him and kissed
his cheek; releasing such a sigh, he looked at her
as if in wonderment and why.

You have no weight upon your chest
You simply need to breathe.
You built a pile, filled with life
Then sat a while, forgetting how to smile.

Sitting tall, his shoulders back he looked at her
and said - you gave me life, and breath this day
and washed away the dirt of life, which held me to
my strife, when I had lost my way.
One breath at a time, one blue sky a day
Can we sit a bit - and enjoy this wonderful day.

Dark Moon

Dark moon on a silver night
Lanterns lit with fright
She sweeps down, swooning
Her reflection, covering us
Like a shadow filled with light.

We danced upon sparkles
Flecks in her eyes, shimmering beauty,
looking down from the skies.

These clouds and their shadows
kept swimming across, when out
of this hue a spotlight spotted us.

Uncanny and eerie, we stood on
our stage; still with superstition,
all filled with this rage.

Building trusses with fusses,
we climbed all about, as the wings
of our legs, like wizened old owls,
these midnight fowls; we made
preparation for flight.

Leaping and dancing, we jumped
all about; flying, taking off with a shout
We ran and we ducked, but it was
just our bad luck.

A dark moon on a silver night
Lanterns lit with fright
Swept down, swooning, and covered us still….

It was only then, and against our good will;
we stood watching, standing, perfectly still
waiting for our favourite old girl.

She, but a rose, bloomed on a stem,
Just over the hill, around the next bend.
The moon losing grip, when the sun took a sip.
With a quick wash of the sky, as the earth
swallowed her up. We left wondering why,
nothing to worry as we scurried away on this
beautifully bright and wonderful day.

Twelve beers

Twelve beers on a Halifax night
Dripping from the pubs
Spitting off the pier
Tall ships in the harbour
Sails full, seagulls in flight
I missed her in my dreams
Passed out, on a cold bloody night.

White waves, saying goodbye
Tides out, as I open my eyes
Captain is yelling,
Where the hells my first mate.

Pissing in the wind
First shower of the day
Hands combed through the hair
Not an aspirin in sight
Thank god for no mirrors
After that cold bloody night.

Up on the Citadel, all out of breath
Leaning on canons, smoke entering my chest
There she is, out pass the fort
by McNab, well out the port, off to deep sea.

Twelve beers on a Halifax night
Dripping from the pubs
Spitting off the pier.

But across the way
A warm bed and a lass
I missed her in my dreams
Those tall beams and a mast
On wavy blue nights, we would dance to a jig
Hanging high in the rig, winds howling a tune
I’m hoping I’ll see that old girl soon.

Twelve beers on a Halifax night
Dripping from the pubs
Spitting off the pier.

Behind the Eyes

I once had a friend, who said they understood.
The reality is they had closed eyes and hoods.
Cloaked hidden face, only thoughts of themselves.
While you’re often left behind, left on a shelf.

Open and honest and free, unfortunately,
that’s not the case, and I doubt, it ever will be.
You can try and try and try and try, but I can
tell you now, what you’ll find at the end - tears,
that’s what you’ll find. Left crying, in a puddle
of brine; sitting you’ll wonder are they really friends of mine.

You give and they take, never mindful your sake;
means nothing to them in the end.
Therefore, you sit and you smile, trying to be gentle,
all the while, you keep pushing your hurt down deep.
God forbid you upset them, because they’ll lambaste
you on a fiery spit, spewing sparks of words, then
they’ll laugh, as it benefits them; this joke of you,
while they think themselves so fit, and not you.

They can look at the beauty of the blue skies all day,
but do they ever stop to look to see what’s behind
the eyes of you. They never really do, do they.
It’s about them, not you. When they are down, then
it’s all about you - as in where are you, can you spare
a dime, or a moment of your time, which you always do.
Because unlike them, that’s just you - a real friend.

A friend, who always bends, flexible to their needs,
and always caring, regardless of when, or who or what,
or why. You’re always looking out for them, but do they
ever send a thing your way, just a moment of their time,
just to say hi or hey. But it never seems to be the way…
it’s always, sorry, I was busy that day.

If only once they would recognize the hurt behind
your eyes. It may make them think a bit, then sit and
have a cry - better yet, to shed a tear or two with you.