Free Verse
Spirit Calls to Guide
Spirit Calls to Guide When daylight fades and silence falls upon the weary land, The spirit comes so quietly with an unseen guiding hand. whispers through the evening breeze that calms the restless soul, Reminding us that every wound can one day become whole.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
The Woman in the Moonlight
The Woman in the Moonlight She walked beneath the silver moon where shadows kissed the ground, A woman lost in memories where forgotten dreams were found. The night became her sanctuary, the stars became her guide, For all the things she couldn’t say were locked away inside.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
The Telltale Signs . Runner-Up in Static Challenge.
I've been thinking a lot about how static builds a charge within us when we caress or rub certain fabrics and materials, how it builds and builds silently, subtly, without warning unless you see those telltale signs: the flicks of hairs standing on end, dancing dust particles.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
The Geography of Static
The dial catches on wallpaper. Pears, yellow as old varnish, continue ripening inside a house that no longer remembers its own address. Someone hums beneath the cabinets, along with wood that already knows the tune. Rain arrives before the clouds. Shoes darken beside a door that has spent twenty years opening for the wrong people. Water rehearses the stains it will leave As the years continue to pass. Christmas lights, and hospital bleach. A paper star caught inside cold fluorescent lights. A heart monitor borrowing its cadence from the crinkle of wrapping paper. Somewhere, a child tears open December. And somewhere else, a nurse closes the curtain. Every frequency tastes like that blue enamel cup. The one that waits beside three different sinks, its handle remembering all too well the thumb that chipped it. All while the hand itself never grows older. The wallpaper pears. Lemon disinfectant, rain, and the bitter smell of pennies. The hallway where pencil marks keep climbing the wall decades after the children have stopped. Static gathers in lampshades and coat pockets, clotting inside the folded corners of recipes. It settles between photographs until every face belongs to absolutely everyone. I turn the dial to the left, and somebody laughs just before discovering what grief weighs. Somebody coughs in a room that hasn't yet been built. Outside, snow continues falling through another August. The signal stabilizes. Briefly. For one impossible breath the pears, the rain, the hospital, the blue cup, and the humming, all occupy the same afternoon. Then, only static again. The soft insistence of places still saying my name to themselves.
By Shannon Hilson3 months ago in Poets
