Pat my head
said he to all
Then from this bridge
you will not fall
Fail to heed
this bit of advice
and down you go
under the ice
If you are
one of the lucky few
Rub my tummy
to see what I’ll do
Should you hear
a jingle in my pockets
Reach inside then
and choose a lucky locket
Open it carefully
but beware
You could get lucky or be caught
forever in my snare
Silver tears drip from clouds
lined in the same
The trance of a dream
faint within the
fading embers
A moment only
a bare remembrance
of how it was to
run free to run wild
no chain to bind my neck
I dip into a place
wracked with pain
Steeped in betrayal
and deceit
from all sides
My soul lain bare
by the trim of life
Movement brings agony
breath begets sorrow
The end a glimmer of release
To know love is to know hate and accept both equally.
In response to Martha Kennedy’s RDP FRIDAY! BLACK AND WHITE prompt.
Northeastern winds whistle across the Bare Rock Mountains. Voices from the past sing to those who choose to listen, and sometimes to those who don’t.
Those who choose willingly to hear the ancestral songs, lift their arms to embrace the remembrances and the histories of those who came before.
Then there are those that choose not to pay heed to the past. They turn a blind eye to not only the travesties, but also forgo the lessons the ancestors passed from generation to generation over the millennia.
These are the ones who fear the screaming wind. The guilt-ridden, the cowardly, the ambivalent ones who hear their failings in each shrieking gust of air as it passes over them, around them, through them.
The mountains hold countenance over all. The brave and honorable pass with respect, as they have given it. Paying homage to the land and loyalty to the spirits residing there, held deep within the granite monoliths.
To those who scoff at the suffering of their forefathers and foremothers, the great peaks hold only retribution and terror. The spirits whip a whirling lash of biting turbulence against those heretics and nay-sayers of the Old Ways. Against those who try in vain and abject arrogance to traverse the mighty cliffs.
For others, who follow the path of nature. Who care for and nourish the Earth and all of her creatures; for those and only those, the spirits sing.
A tenuous string
fabricated with particles
of space and time
Winding it’s path
predetermined perhaps
or perhaps not
To a world full of life
clinging to the fraying
thread on the end of the reel
Fear feeds the need
to find and hear the answers
before the ultimate lose
To uncover secrets
hidden beyond the black
blanket of the Universe
The desire and drive
to be off this beautiful
planet before she dies
Sir Gallant
A good friend of mine
and truly nothing more
Yet his leaving this life
has left me heart-sore
Taken away too soon
to join the shining stars
An anagram is not a monogram
and never a squeamish telegram.
But beware that fully stocked minibar
your favorite red-rum may become a murder!
Gypsie’s Wonderful World of Words 