Stars burn, but wounds of light remain,
While hands grasp for what won’t sustain.
The night calls sharp, to where visions ran,
Unraveled dreams nascent truth began

I bring some news to the lone coyote
out on the prairie seeking kith and kin,
I tilt at windmills like old Don Quixote
but my royal command sets those sails to spin.

When in my fall's Autumn lusty breezes
I shall strew my royal carpet with gold,
and lift some skirts to gain due curtsies
and strip heads bare to show, don't be bold.

Here in my realm of brisk April showers,
the weathervanes point but all point in vain,
from all directions I shall make you cower
and bow your head down, low, as I rain.

It is ineligant.
It is ugly.

I'm angry.
I'm angry.

I wake up angry.
I try,try and try but even sleep angry.
I have run out of skin to cut.
Bleeding does not defuse my pain anymore.

I simmer,
In self pity,
Anger,
Stupidity
.....hopes and dreams that hope is coming

An apocalypse is not what we see in movies

It's realising life is kinda shitty
And, you have to hold on to some branch...

I dunno if it's meant to be olive. Im in Africa.

Poetry
Much more than lines or rhymes
Or words dictated by some standard form
It is what that is inside me, my thoughts, feelings
My own form

countless crab-claw bays
dot the infinite coastline
roadless travel diverging
belatedly emerging
edge to edge, nights or days
its waters’ crystal shine
makes a difference always

You are born
Maybe against your will
Maybe you fight
Maybe you pick your battles
And still lose
The little piece you kept for yourself,
Everything.

Folks will agree, then bury their noses in screens,
Call you loud, big mouthed and insane
You want to smash every single one of their window panes
And mark a red X on their door, so the whole world will know
That their houses are plagued

As I reached up to yonder sky,
Apple dropped, into speckled eye.
Tears welled up, as I start to cry
As witness to earth scorched dry.

Pearlescent sweat upon my brow,
Aware of all that's fair and foul.
Although penny's dropped in silent growl,
Stoically, won't throw in that towel.

And as I seek to push on through,
With strength, less oak, more of Yew.
Knowing that olive branch to be true,
All hope of peace, centred in you.

By the Farm (Reimagined at the Frost Farm)

If I were forged of granite, stark and gray,
A fieldstone wall where sunbeams softly lie,
Could your hand, tracing lichen's ancient way,
Discover echoes of a spirit nigh?
And if, one day, a stone should slip and sigh,
Lost to the rustling leaves of Derry's fall,
Would you perceive the weight of earth drawing nigh,
This slow surrender, answering nature's call?

Her hands cupped over her face
dripped sadness like spring rain
falling from the sill where orchids bloomed beneath.
He just stood there helpless, could do nothing.
She had always been so sensitive,
He could see memories flooding her mind
into puddles where lives had grown . . .

The book just happened to open to the page, that page
she had written on forty years ago
wishing him a successful and happy life
under her autograph, words during a time
when the times were good . . .

I took the course that my Mom required
Before I was permitted to do what I desired

I waited for the box to arrive with glee
Dreaming of all the work that I would see

I heard the postman’s footsteps pounding there
And then I spied the small square box on the stair

Inside I saw what looked like a small TV
And dreamed about all that I now could be

Brand new games and programs on floppy disks appear
I knew that my expanded education would be near