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Always with Us

The morning is cold,
The sky is black,
An emotion called grief,
Is on your back.

The storm is ferocious,
Emotions peek and trough,
The boat is disabled,
By our indescribable loss.

Gradually the storm,
Will begin to ease,
Giving breath to talk,
Reflect and believe.

But just round the corner,
With just the breeze,
The storm returns,
You are on your knees.

The sea is unpredictable,
The sails carry us along,
We begin to feel,
Our loved one isn’t gone.

With love and care,
These storms will pass,
The boat’s in order,
The sails half mast.

It’s a long journey,
The boat begins to move with grace,
It makes you feel relaxed,
And puts a smile on your face,

We can recall the memories,
With all the love in our heart,
They will always be with us,
We will never be apart.

 

by Tonya

 

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

S.A.D

The black dog Shook his weary head Stay in bed He said. The black dog Followed me again Munching biscuits Lost energies for meals. The black dog Didn’t go for walks For three weeks He stayed inside. Not answering his calls The black dog remained silent Until Spring. Chris
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Silence in Class

Into a cushioned pillow Amplified silences Signal a crushing loss and services unknown. An unofficial Query Offers hope to the unknown Forgotten in resonance and steep memories. Traumas unveil A mask of deception Decades of vicious darkness an undercover supply. Anon.
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Greyfriars

If ever there were dragons they left their passion here in garnet schist and granite,  crazy migmatite of marbled black and white: hot scramblings of the pluton. What's left of monks is bony, hard to see: a grassy field where horses crop and starlings pop and bubble natter-songs of seed and insect, feeding over buried walls. Cobble-flocks and boulders Cluster; mortared stone reliques tell crustal stories deeper than our poor humanity. Churches pass and minsters fall: the pagan flints remain. Tim
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Ickworth Oaks

Those ancient tumbled oaks With intermittent decay the ridged thick bark clings to the base of striped ochre-gold. Silver-grey serpentine arms, outstretched lightning forks reaching to the tufted earth. Beetle channels deeply grooved beneath marks of a veteran striped bark, worn, crumbled and flaked. Amorphous hues, a forgotten silhouette of darkness revealed in Winter’s sun. Cameron
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Whispered Words

Whispered words of silence Forgotten energies Of the past. Like a recurring dream Restless thoughts Of the now. Spirited voices of the present Elated energies Of the future.   Sally  
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Ready to Spring

Like the gnarly springtime bulbs, dormant in the ground Your demons crouch under the skin, waiting to be found Waiting for their moment, to break through and be seen The pale face of snowdrops, in a vibrant sea of green Emmalene Taylor
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River Linnet

River Linnet, A chalk stream In Bury. Rubbish, Let’s bin it Instead of Filling it. Edith St-King
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A Mindful Reunion

We meet in silence Clutching blankets brought from home, Holding memories from a year ago When scars were raw, Heads disguised by wigs And tears too salt to weep. I found words difficult then. ‘Body scan’ Was not a mindful exercise But a machine at the end of a corridor. There were places in my body I could not touch with thought. Like chrysalis we scatter the floor Each section of our being Revisited with childlike curiosity, Sensations magnified, the tickle of wool, the press of cotton. A forgotten ache from an ankle. Our teacher’s voice Both lesson and lullaby Returning to the breath Again and again We try to train our thoughts; Naughty as puppies With Baskerville bites I find peacefulness within the ordinary, Rest my head in the soft cushion of a second Savouring the beauty of this moment, Both rooted in earth and reaching for stars. Jacqueline Woods
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Feathers

It’s as if all the birds In every weather Had dropped every feather The weight sometimes Of all those why's A ton of lead Or a ton of words unsaid Down on a feathered bed The weight belies The width of squawks When the birds are dead And they sing remembering When a ton of song Weighed the same as Fly away Autumns Flu away fall Feather or not Bird at all. Stephen Kirin
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Castaway

If my cast was made of moss I’d be content With the spring of reassurance. If my emotions were made of clay I’d mould them Into a ball. If my ball rolled Far away I’d rescue them Without fail. Natasha
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