poem, writing, poetry, drabble
I will take on that fight, although it will cause me to curl,
my body is sweat, face bloody, tears drop like pearls.
I will carry on, keep climbing, although I’m so weak,
rise early tomorrow, despite that day being bleak.
I will do this next step, even when crippled by fear,
keep praying and cursing, in silence, for no one to hear.
No foe will stop me, no demon, no beast and no man,
And so I will keep going until “I will”, will become: I am.
I’ll eat chocolate for breakfast
and smoke a cigarette for lunch
I’ll wear pajamas all day
and mascara all night
I’ll swipe left and right
and kiss indiscriminately
I’ll bring home an unmemorable date
and kick him out before coffee
I’ll be the person you fell for
and I’ll be single.
A place, where the sunlight
isn’t allowed to go,
and where the starlight
falls to ground, swimming
through endless dreams,
taking refuge to shadows …
A place, forbidden to the sun,
protects those unborn, unseen,
neglected and hidden.
The most beautiful flowers
bloom under the midnight sky …
The most unique blossoms
in the land of twilight …
With fondness I bid thee farewell
Unfortunately you they very rarely sell
I mourn the passing of a shirt with a pocket
Along with ground coffee, bar soap and the photo locket
What should I do with my little notebook and pen?
And the business cards I receive to no end
People laugh and say just use your phone
But how in good conscience could that become my touchstone?
So please don’t tell me the next fashion decision to be dealt
Will be the elimination of my beloved pants belt.
By Frederick Ostrovskis-Wilkes
The drought is hard,
Soil that once bore the fruit
and fed the thirst of spreading roots
now charred, sand and ash,
A cancer spreading through the plain,
Dancing on the burning graves of
those that seek the weeping rain,
Drown them, flood their wounds.
Resilient, he stands,
Leather skin with arms of spears
and pride to fill the space of fear
ravaging the lands
A warrior bound in blood
and mud to these barren sands,
Waiting for the night to call,
The pale blanket of moonlight’s shawl
to hold it,
hand in hand.
The bottom beckoned
But I would not go
I yearned for help
I got hurt instead
I made my hole
It was for me to climb
I wanted a rope
I got a shovel
I was drowning in a sea of me
I needed a life boat
I got an anchor
Hope was above if I could get there
Take the boot off my head
There was a way and I found it
Toss the hurt, the shovel, the anchor, the boot
It’s my hole, it’s my sea
I won’t go down
It’s up to me
He bought a used acoustic
And a Washburn mandolin
With thoughts of playing sixties tunes
On sidewalks of a mountain town
Where snow geese flocked from all around
To shop the shops for pottery
And other artsy craft;
His will to see it through
Was like his previous grandiose plans
And he hung his instruments on the wall
To either side of the pendulum clock
Which had tocked its last years before
And though the clockman swore by his skills
The pendulum remained quite still
As did the used acoustic
And the Washburn mandolin.
