GRAB A CUPPA...

Grab a cuppa tea or coffee and have a short read of my Poetry and Eclectic Thoughts.


"Poems are rough notations for the music we are."  Jalaluddin Rumi

THE RAVEN

Now, in the winter, I follow a path,

A fire road carved out of the woods through the trees,

Winding in and out like a snake seeking food.

I feel the cold wind on my back

Cutting through the light jacket

The sharp teeth of winter biting my face.

A deep grey sky indicates a pending snowstorm.

In the distance, a black crow caws his message to the forest,

Echoing on the cold, heavy air.

He receives no answer to his call.

A raven, unexpectedly, has perched upon my shoulder,

Its blue-black wings tight against its slender, hollow bones.

Leaning slightly forward, his jet black eye peers into mine,

Speaking a silent language,

Warning me.

But I cannot hear the silent thoughts;

I cannot heed his warning.

“Why, raven, have you sought me out among all others? 

What message do you bring me?”

But the silent raven only stares,

And digs with sharp talons into my coat,

The wind moving his feathers in a flapping motion

As if willing him to fly.

Yet he clings.

“What is the message, raven?” I ask again silently.

His eyes, like deep, dark pools of swirly, muddy water, give only a penetrating stare.

The wind increases,

The dark bird flies,

And I am left to face the coldness of the night alone,

Wondering if the raven  has stolen my soul.

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THE STAR

In the middle of the night

A star fell from the sky.

I watched as its bright, diamond sparkle tumbled and gently floated from high.

The star nestled into the earth,

And over time it grew and became a lovely flower

With sunlight weaving through its slowly unfolding petals,

Opening to the world,

It’s core a golden heart, trusting, full of sweetness and color.

Each season I watched as the flower folded into itself,

Yet soon became reborn,

Changing and growing,

Its petals becoming even more lovely than before,

Its golden heart widening, filling with love.

Then, just when the flower was at its most beautiful,

At the brink of fulfilling its earthbound destiny,

At the edge of a newer, fuller life,

Just then…

The flower was plucked!

No more to open its lovely, pure petals,

Its scented heart.

No more to feel the sunshine on its gentle, upturned face,

Nor to feel the warm rain of life trickle to its roots to help it grow.

The flower was plucked!

Sadly it faded,

Withered,

Was gone.

Forever.

Sometimes, when I watch the sky at night

And I see falling stars

I wonder.

“Is that my flower?

Has it gone home only to return one day to flourish again? 

Or do I dream in vain?”

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IF YOU DIE

If you die, I’ll know it was from a broken heart.

I can see it doesn’t work any longer.

It’s fragmented.

Like an electrical circuit interrupted,

Your emotions zig-zag

In and out,

Up and down,

Hot and cold,

Freezing cold!

You try, I can see that.

I watch, and hope, but nothing works right.

Like a small bird with a broken wing

You start and stop,

Try and fail,

When all the time the dark cat hiding behind the bush

Waits for you to tire,

To become weak,

To stumble and fall,

Again.

If you die, I’ll know your heart became tired of trying.

I’ll know the wings folded and gave up.

I’ll know the fractured heart shattered.

If you die.

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I do hope you enjoyed my writings.  I certainly enjoyed bringing them to you.