The Beautiful World.

Beautiful poetry by G. Boston.
Comments closed at HOH. Please visit the original

musings at random.

The world will be the world; don’t let it get you down. Don’t let it crush your spirit. There’s a beauty in the world that continues to give life as long as we train our eyes to see that beauty.

View original post

Advertisements

Earth

A heart beat from
ash her plea lifts through
the trees and across the
poppy fields.
Her walls overflow with
the swell of the seas
spilling down mountains
through the  valley where
wheat once thrived.
She has given her all,
her forests are  ravaged
their hollow bones protrude
through  blistered skin.
What is left is a  volcano spewing lava
 that she never meant to spill.
Unwavering crusader her
bones  reach out to courage
eyes deep wells of wisdom
at war with apathy.
Bruised from battle
forsaken by greed her cries
rise above the mountains
deep into the valleys,
she cries out to you and me
a plea of dignity.

 

 

“America Last: Under Trump, US Now the Last Holdout from Paris Climate Accord”
USA TODAY

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sentry

A young birch sways

like a newborn giraffe

its limbs lean out over

wilted grass and ochre

vines wind a marble sentry

whose eyes never flinch

but guard eternal  while

winter snow stacks on

solitary bones until May

winds stir the crowns of

trees filled with the wails of

wingless birds powerless

to fly on.

 

 

powerless birds.png

 

Anais

I like to sit in her lap
and play games.
She strokes my fur with
her gentle fingers.
Sometimes I tease and
pull away,
lick myself and pretend
I am too busy.
When our master comes home
he too likes to play.
He tosses me into the flower bed
with rough paws.
I feel my bones may break but
she placates him with a smile
while I hide away in the garden
chasing lizards and winged things.
I  can see her kneel as he yanks her hair
and slaps the dewdrops from her face.
I don’t understand the games my people play.
When it’s done he washes  the rust from
his nail beds,  says he’s had a bad day.

 

  Stop Domestic Violence

Anais Anais

Photography by Heart

anemone

In the moonlight I am a shimmer

of anemone flowers washed ashore

on  cascades of foamy waves across

the flawless imprint of my love.

Gossamer  beams spill down our throats

where there is no need for words below

a sky  filled with muted stars  driven to be near us.

 

Tonight we are the sigh of winds

over high cliffs echoing from  walls

of  murky caves and back again.

Tethered to nothing we are

free of burden,  golden sand enticing the

current through ancient reefs,

released forever back to the sea.

 

Coral Reef  from Google

 

for Pablo

the verses of Santiago
*unfastened and open
beneath the wings of starlings
or carried on the wind.
Loose pearls of rose salt
against the horizons arc,
a  sudden burst of blue
from a sky of circling birds.

 

 

*”unfastened and open” taken from Pablo Neruda “Poetry” Memorial de Isla Negra

 

 A Passage from Night on the Island

 

by Pablo Neruda

All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island.
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water.

when I miss you

my body becomes so small

I  could fit into the  minuscule heart

of a sea bird begging salt  with his  pulpy tongue.

A discarded shirt hangs on the bed post

and every trace of you remains where

I return and return.

My cries unravel the clouds,

rain down like summer storms.

Carry  me close  in your chest

deep in your heart through the

rhythmic sounds of railways

through the snow covered alps

or  the black tar of foothills.

 

 

 

google art

She

I don’t have the words for this…it’s very special.  Comments closed, please see the original.

My Screaming Twenties

She visited me tonight,

pressed her hand

against my heart,

caught my breath

in her palm

and asked me if I felt,

her anger, her apathy

and dismay.

She visited me tonight,

pulled apart

each knuckle

and asked me how,

many times

I’d held your hand,

then threatened

to pin loss

in my sides,

to lock her heartache

into my ribcage.

She visited me tonight,

promised I’d keep you

only as a whisper,

as a love letter

written and stowed,

as a postcard

never sent,

told me I’d lose

you, to the aether

she’d enchanted

with lies.

© Kristiana Reed 2018

Image credit. 

View original post

the language of angels

House of Heart

There is a message for you.

It is written behind my eyes.

I apologize for the bright light

but that is the form I have chosen.

It is like me to fill the air with

symbolic phrases but don’t read

too much into me.

Strike me out if I  have wandered

unconstrained in your dreams.

What we seek is inside us

it is the language of angels,

we have named it poetry.

“In the midst of hate I found invincible love

In the midst of tears I found an invincible smile

In the midst of chaos  I found invincible calm

In the midst of winter  I found an invincible summer”
Albert Camus, The Stranger

Manuel Avendano

View original post