A tapestry with threads diversely spun,
From elders' wisdom, to a life begun.
Grandparents' hands, weathered and kind,
Whispering stories of the years they've defined.
Parents' love, a steady guiding light,
Through childhood's dreams and darkest night.
Siblings' bond, a constant through the years,
Sharing laughter, triumphs, and hidden fears.
A symphony of voices, each unique,
Blending together, their differences we seek
To understand, and cherish in their sound,
A harmony within the family ground.
From bickering laughter to a silent glance,
A language spoken, given just a chance.
Forgiveness blooms where hurt may reside,
Love's embers glowing, strong and deep inside.
Though paths may diverge, and miles may grow,
The family tree's roots forever know,
The strength and love that binds us all as one,
A haven we can always call our home.
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress5 days ago in Poets
Timothy
My fingers inch closer to the keyboard, itching to obliterate a day's worth of work. It's some of my best writing I've done to date, but at what cost? The words seem to bleed, dripping onto my desk. For a millisecond, I'm sitting in front of a crime scene, looking at dead, begging eyes. Why? Why me?
By Alexandria Stanwyck6 days ago in Fiction
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