20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


Hope

The full moon hangs heavy
in the sky just before dawn
pregnant with the weight
of new beginning
a mystical ball of way-showing light
that speaks in silence
to the many who clamor to kneel
before its placement in the heavens
a throne of ruby-ringed stardust
and a thousand twinkling courtiers
bleed across the darkened canvas
of the mind’s eye
in the holy sanctum
of the soul
where heart light resides
in a private universe
charged with the promise
of Hope

©SpiritLed 2014


Heartsong

Bedroom with moonlight and smoke

Twilight sparkles in violet eyes
that gaze upon a star-filled night
ponder the vastness of the world in view
questions if there is any more in this lifetime or the next

Moonbeams shower illustrious glory
a worried mind with hopes for tomorrow
soaks in the rays, feels the loving arms
of those gone before,
soothing lullabies for an ancient generation
raise laughter to the sky

Through thick and thin
disaster and delight
she takes the moon to be her partner,
her loving mistress of the night
who fuels her warrior spirit
and fills her with the courage to face each day
to know and recognize
that the pounding,  fleshy organ in her chest
brings life not from its incessant beating
but from its unending capacity
to hold us all within its crimson chamber

©SpiritLed 2014


5 Comments

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


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.


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.


3 Comments

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.


7 Comments

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.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 3,496 other followers

%d bloggers like this: