Echoes of
driven drifting sand
-Ticking-
against the window pane,
my heart,
and lofty dreams
of being able
to write
as elegantly
as poets of renown.
Walls of rock red
pummeled,
my fists pulp as roses
fallen,
a neglected garden
of desire.
Weeds frown
over brown dust-rustles
hissing my failures
aloud.
Within
the speaking language
of literature complete,
within this hello of words
becoming feathers;
reminding my soul
to soar,I gaze
at birds in flight.
~r.
All rights reserved,
© July 2008, R. Braley
(astralshepherd)
Author notes
een taal is nooit genoeg nie
una lingua numquam satis est
Une seule langue n'est jamais suffisante
please, let me know what YOU think
Comments
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C'est la langue d'amour et la poesie d'ame...(forgive the rusty french)You have a beautiful soul, Richard...and you write of your frustration in petals of lovely fragrance...reminding us also to let our souls soar..Bless you Shepherd, now and always...Peace, Rhonda
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deep and moving
it's been a long time since i've read any of your work but i can see that you have grown a great deal in your artist's heart and soul to keep things so powerful and precise. it doesn't linger on a line, but keeps a rhythm that casually moves the reader along, i suppose somewhat like a drifting feather from one of those birds. while it's clearly somber in tone, it's also beautiful in its raw essence, such as the exposition of the spirit to an unfamiliar and quite possibly unkind audience. even so, no timidness. this was really well done.
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