General! near to fall
Plunged toward open ground appalled
The blood, the wounds now mercifully tried,
Just one to run against the rules this time.
His right the higher ground, from paths
Where men and maples dark did pause
To bleed if he was not the hope theirs was
And pay for thinking soon enough.
Linking up with http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com
painting by Ralph Albert Blakelock (1874-1919)
Listen! and believe me.
Believe me when I say,
That I know what the birds say,
That I know what the trees say,
And I know what the winds say when they brush their soft, soft fingers against my cold cheeks
BUT I do not know what I say
And when the trees, and the winds, and the birds speak across my mind,
I have nothing to say to the trees, and the winds, and birds.
So I just listen,
When we breathe together
Years side-by-side in a night
Champions, getting there
this is an erasure poem – made up of words from a newspaper article. Prompt from http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com
my heart is a waterfall, that beats upon the sand
my blood flows steadily, strongly, quietly, as the deep river
each breath of mine is as measured as the waves of the ocean
my eyes are two moons, reflecting the light of everything around myself
as they look out at this world, this wild world, this empty untouched land that is my birthright to look upon
this wildness that is the very life of my soul, and the eternal breaking of it
I look out and I try to understand it, as my heart beats and my blood flows and my breath ebbs out, and in
and finally I stop looking, and at last I just am
prompt from http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com
They call it the Witching Hour.
When the birds have long fallen silent.
And the air quakes with apprehension.
When the dark has come; swallowed the light.
The world becomes a savage thing.
But I turn my face to the sky and laugh.
Because I love it.
I love the frozen night.
When even the wind is quiet.
And the very air is waiting.
I love the memory of sunlight that lingers about me.
Even here remains the soul of the old north forest.
Inspiration from http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com
Can you the hear the harebells ringing? Softly chiming, softly singing?
See them through the magic rain, purple crowns upon a chain.
Do you smell the flower’s mirth – all the ancient scents of earth?
Touch the silver-gilded leaves, waltzing in each wayworn breeze.
Like the flower, taste the air. Breathe the sunlight hanging there.
Cradled in its purple keep, follow it through fields of sleep
As ever, in the dark it tells: hear them! Hear the ringing bells!
This great prompt from http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com
Orion is an archer,
and all alone he walks the skies
night after night, club in one hand,
bow in the other.
Can you see his bright belt
sparkling like diamonds on clear winter nights?
Do you feel him watching over you,
ready to leap to your defense?