20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


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Echoes of Tomorrow’s Past

In your tear-filled rage
of not deserving,
time and space
collide with the moon
in your heart,
guide, seek,
draw you to the edge,
invite you
to cast your sorrows,
your excuses,
into the Unknown,
nothing more than
echoes of tomorrows past

©SpiritLed 2014
http//:wp.me/p2Ptur-6p


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January Moon

You erupted the sky that night,
turned the black an ocean blue.
You halo your light wide,
invoking strange regressions
I thought were long forgotten.

I expected rebirth,
a quake to the foundation,
but was greeted with the memory
of the color I swam toward
when I fell from the boat.
Disoriented and desperate,
I swam deeper until I was hooked
by the waist and pulled
gasping to surface.

It was the first time
I was lost.
The first time I stretched
in the wrong direction,
only to be dragged
unwilling back to sanity.

In the morning the bedroom window
is covered with a thin layer of dew,
the cold condensed into liquid
that clouds and drips across thin panes,
blocking out the sunrise.


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Meteorologists

Tonight we’re due for snow, but look out there
at sun and warmth, no frilly white to wear.
I don’t think I believe the weathermen
who talk of snow again, and then again.

They taunt us, make us think that winter’s here
with their predictions. Nah, they’re just a mere
wish that their hopes align with ours, that soon
December struts its stuff beneath a winter moon.


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Untitled

If I had married a poet
he would sing me to sleep with simile,
march into morning with metaphor,
brew the coffee, set the table,

a woven placemat for him,
a green one with lilies for me.
The white porcelain teapot, steaming

with water for my cup, two sugars, a slice of lemon,
and his strong coffee, black, no sweetness
except for the flavor of him
across the table.

We look, see much more,
speak, don’t speak.
The air is charged.
But,

he is not a poet.
He listens to my words,
understands my simile, my metaphor.
We have combined

our differences.
He is morning. I am night,
I the moon and he the sun
who has become my poet.


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As darkness falls

One is six, the other three years old.

It’s been a busy day and they are tired,

but not tired enough to give in.

Now, there is a feeling of renewed energy

as they realise it’s growing dark.

There is a moon

and a few stars have appeared.

Christmas lights are beginning to twinkle.

It is not Christmas yet.

Not for weeks.

It’s only the garden centre

in advertising mode

dressing itself up

showing off its new seasonal wares.

The two boys

don’t care.

For them,

now,

in the dark,

watching the lights,

Christmas has begun.


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Self-Conscious

Private intimations

Stun and astonish,

With subtle divulgence,

Scattered scantily

Amid common communication

A monotone revelation

Drifting on halcyon air.

An ominous precursor -

Flashing red lights,

Bells clanging, flags waving

Madly with such tragic bane -

Even clouds burrow humbly,

Shrouding rays of the sun

Awed and moved

Propitious foretelling,

A brilliant full-moon flight

Withering silence

simultaneously freed

And paralyzed

By the escape of such

Transcendent truth

Rationed to a rapt mind.

Trust of the un-trusting

Meandering beyond boundaries

Of a self-conscious mind.


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other voices

Sometimes I
admire the
moon for it
cannot match
the sun’s glory
so it finds
it’s own patch
of sky to
brighten.

Sometimes I
admire the
nightingale
for it is drowned
out in the shrilly
shouts of other
fowls so it
finds its own
silence to
liven.

Sometimes I
strive for the
sun yet I
can’t reach it,
so I aim for
the twinkling
stars instead.

Somewhere
over the rainbow
the colour black
is weeping,
but then she
realizes the
mysterious beauty
of the night.


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A sweet vehement desire

A sweet vehement desire

to reach the sky so high

and kiss those stars,

play with the moon-ball,

just fly care free away away and away.

I hope I was that kid again,

the desire of whom I now speak of.

How time changes, how realities become

more important than fantasies, ending

all such sweet vehement desires.


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An Early Morning Dream

An early morning dream

where everything is still so dark,

the light of the day hasn’t yet arrived,

the dawn is beginning its show.

An early morning dream,

where I dream of the early morning,

the stars still shining,

the moon though can’t be seen.

An early morning dream

where I experience the early morning.


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The Nature of Us

I am waves upon your shore, she begins,
dashing myself against you, constant.
I am undertow, says he.
Succumb or be pulled under.

See me in every tree, she replies,
leaves trembling to see your face.
I am the moon o’erhead, he replies,
watching for your every move.

I am the dispersing wolf, she says, traveling
a thousand miles, separated from the heard.
He answers in a howl-  I am wind.
I know exactly who you are.


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Crowded Room

Svein Koningen painting "The crowded room...

Svein Koningen painting “The crowded room” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wretched racket of quiet

has entered this room

dancing mockingly at your gloom

I laugh back

for I am in love with solitude

little had they knew, I relish and catch-up

on conversations I started with myself

by clear water lagoons

they had forgotten

I passed many a moon

Still the dancers; erect ears

set on doom

I will tap on their shoulders

for a spin about my room

laughing playfully

they thought they could

grate my ears with

their crackling croon

of quiet performances

bowing down at my gloom.

© [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com], [2012]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, artwork, or photo’s without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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Rain

Green gray

this day

warm icy wind

tickles my skin

goose bumps live

under the rain drops

solemn moods

and soaking cries

illicit friends

burning sky

birds no more

intrude

the sun snoozes

behind gray clouds

as if to never speak aloud

again to light

rejoice

rebound

night-time moon

crescent crown.

© [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com], [2012]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, artwork, or photo’s without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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