You are an unfinished poem Stuck in my heart, Appearing on the horizon Like an unanswered question Simple as one-two-three, Further from reality But as real as flesh on bone The lively echo of your smile Keeps me thinking, What's left incomplete Is sometimes just as sweet As the holy "amen" At the end of a silent prayer -LTW-
I had a dream.
You treated me to a tattoo
For my birthday surprise.
I could not decide on the design
So many choices!
It’s funny, because
I realized
How hard this must be.
For you loathe tattoos
But want me to be
Happy just the same.
It was so clean and
The needle pain-free.
The final poke brought
me into a club–The Tattoo Club.
My forearm was the extremity of choice
(but never would be in real life).
Ink so bold and yet I felt the same.
I awoke before it bled,
Then I laughed as I watched you sleep beside me.
You had no idea what you had just done.
LTW.
Are you in the tattoo club?
image source: Photo by Natalie Rhea on Unsplash
I’m thinking there are two types of people in this world: those who mend and those who discard. Actually let me add a third type; those who want to mend but cannot. They take their mending to have it done by a pro (smart folks).
I used to be in the second and third category but as I’ve gotten a bit older, I mend more often. Since I was a child, I have almost ‘enjoyed’ sewing by hand. Almost. My grandma taught me how to thread the needle and how to make a few stitches. I used to watch her ‘darning’ my father’s socks when she came to stay with us. She was pretty good with a sewing needle. She did not have a sewing machine.
Today, I am cautiously introducing to you, Nora M. Parker, my night time poet pseudonym or perhaps my muse, and alter ego.
Although I have only published one of her poems here—something she reminds me often—I plan to include more of her night poems here in the near future.
I will warn you that she has a bit of an attitude. Without further ado, welcome Nora M. Parker to the blog…
When the spirits are restless
You shall be, too.
Your bed is a machine
Whirring and tossing you.
Tangling sheets strangle your feet.
Your eyes on fire.
Apparitions from long ago
Make their presence known.
Jolted consciousness!
It’s Alice again
And you must drink the tea.
Hares and Queens tempt you
With their hijinks.
Beg the spirits to make haste
So you can befriend the moon again.
Tireless desire rest, rest, rest.
Sharing a poem I wrote a few months ago. If you’re feeling the grips of fear, and who isn’t currently, then I think you’ll enjoy this.
Unafraid of the darkness Eagles perch in wait Watching our movements If we dare Swooping in delight They carry us afar Up, up to Aquarius night star We float upon Clouds like jelly Aspic on our tongues From melted lies we left behind Our flight to the horizon On breadth of Eagle’s wings Lifts our spirits To unimaginable height In the inky sky Older now We learn To soar not crawl Unafraid of the darkness All fear subsides As we fly above obstacles That no longer block our lives -Lisa Thomson Wells
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