To finally see the colours

 

Photograph from National Geographic

My life has often been about chaos
and destruction, a walk into dark alone.
It isn’t pleasant there;
the words I write often sound of black.

But when mindfulness awakes me,
I begin to write of colours and of peace.

Like green is the grass blowing in the wind.
Blue is Neptune spinning round the moon.
Orange is the orange that tastes so good.
Yellow is the sun that warms me to the core.
Red is the colour I could wear and adore.

To finally be able to see
is such a wondrous gift.
There is music in the world,
and rainbows –

sometimes inside of me.
by Louise

Written for Blognostics Colour Contatenation

Advertisements

Little poem

This gogyohka dance happened this morning, quite unexpectedly, when @novatwitman stalked and pounced on my tweet of  ‘little poem’ ~ it resulted in this magical collaborative twitter poem. You can read more of @novatwitman’s ‘Wicked Thoughts’ here.

Little poem
out there
all alone
will it
be safe?

Beware little one
in the shadows
lurks the devourer
of innocent
words

Little poem
sings
her song
of beauty
to his ears

Scream
if you must
only darkness hears
its only
me and you alone

The letters
quiver
as he
takes his bite
to all eternity

His beastly appetite
leans on her alphabet
snarls lewdness
promise the dictionary
for a bite

He leads her
by the commas
blowing
!!!!
into her ear

His wickedness
verbs and nouns
enchanted sonnets
mesmerize
her thoughts

Limbs askew
she dies
bleeding
into his
darkness bound

Her poems wither
life drain
death ensue
rebirth
merge with his dark words

She runs
through forests wild
with the wolf
of the night
lost to his desire

A recruit
his tribe
unwilling poem
no longer innocent
reincarnated devourer

Ancients blood
in forgotten words
desires bound
together
two as one

~ finis ~

Sleep

Sleep like the friend you once knew,
the one who kept you up all night
talking until the clock dropped off,
dribbling free-association
into the ether pile. Read a book
or write a poem, listening to the crows
that tear the old ideas apart,
hanging from the ceiling
in winding trails of blood.
And think not why you cannot sleep
(or perhaps you should?)
the sea is deep and blind
and still the sun must rise.
This small life is doing fine,

maybe it shouldn’t wake up at all.

 

by Louise

Sometimes

Sometimes the cut is too deep,
the wounds bleeding and wide open.
I’m not proud of them, never that.
Bitterness is my failure. I take it daily,
feeling its poison thread through my
veins like a drug. It is too costly to be nice;
like the taste of slow torture,
your tongue tracing the salty tracks
made by the tears that stream down my face.

Some things just betray me,
catching  my heart in a vice.
The scent of freedom’s a thrill,
being caught out in your gaze;
the freshly mown grass under my feet;
those days by the river, buzzing with dragonflies,
flitting in a whirl of business and wings.

But this is how it is now,
me keeping my distance
watching from afar. What is better,
safe and comfortable or caught out on a limb?
You did your work well
giving me your pain at the start of my life.

 

by Louise

Dark Angel

Frozen stream in Enäjärvi, Finland.

Dark angel of the frozen night
freezes the blood of souls in pain,
and sears the truth right through the brain,

spreads stark despair in black and white,
cries swollen tears within your fears,
with outspread wings in silent flight.

All winds and sunlight he shall reign,
dark angel of the frozen night.

by Louise

My effort for Monday’s Onestoppoetry form – Octains,  invented by Luke Prater