Poetry Wednesday #49

I found this photo on a Pinterest board.
The outfit is sold on Etsy.

Woman, 3 of many

She always wanted to travel against the status quo, and walk on paths less beaten,

But she was met with a resounding "No!" when she tried to dip her feet in.

In greater than ten thousand ways she was told she was worth zero—

For a girl is only good for lays and can never be a hero.

Her courage, once great and true and strong, could not stand against the constant pecking

And soon the disenchanted throng had her to do their becking.

By the time she'd grown she'd lost her joy, and her bravery, spirit, and brain.

All because she was not a boy, she lived her life in pain.

Poetry Wednesday #48

By Jnn13 [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL], via Wikimedia Commons

Independence Day, or thoughts on the 4th of July

We are the conquerors,

The conquered,

The slavers,

The enslaved,

The Privileged,

the poor.

We are the huddled masses,

and those who bar them from the door.

We range in color from the darkest browns

to palest pinks,

And our world is not colorblind.

We make up a nation that is less a melting pot,

and more a large tureen of stew

With the scraps thrown away—

Forgotten.

The air tonight is thick with smoke,

Smelling an equal of gunpowder, barbecue, tobacco, and marijuana.

The pop! and BANG!

of celebratory bombs

Seems unending.

Someone tonight is going to lose a hand

Someone tonight is going to be shot by accident
Someone tonight is going to die

as even bullets obey the law of gravity

And being blasted into the air

by the careless and carefree

2nd Amendment loving

self-proclaimed "freedom fighters"

Or perhaps the simply drunken gun-owner

wishing to look badass in front of family and friends

Shoots his gun into the air

forgetting that the bullet must needs come down again.

It doesn't matter.

It won't come down on them,

But a block or two over,

An adjacent neighborhood,

Where they won't have to see the carnage.

Still,

Fireworks are pretty,

Barbecue is tasty,

And everyone feels a pinch of patriotic pride.

We celebrate.

And don't think of the consequences.

Poetry Wednesday #47

By ESO [CC BY 4.0], via Wikimedia Commons

I dream the crescent moon

I dream the crescent moon—

Pouring out darkness into the sky

Wild-me running, night-hounded,

Chased and chasing madness.

I dream the hunter hunted,

The haunter haunted.

I dream the cold hours of darkness,

With miles to go before the sun.

Colors deepen,

Crimson running blue.

I dream the crescent moon—

Pouring out darkness into the sky.

Poetry Wednesday #46

Pink Sky via Wikimedia Commons

Thoughts driving home after work

Pink sun,

Floating,

       Sinking,

Awash in a orange sky that's

Blued at the edges–

Daylight lingers now,

So, so long,

In high summer.

Daylight lingers, but

Darkness drops fast

And hard

Upon the awaiting world below.

Blink,

And it's upon you–

Shadows hiding in shadows–

And for a moment,

Not even the stars are out.

Poetry Wednesday #45

A crow was run over by a car in front of my house.  Photo by me.

Have you heard a heart breaking?

So, Death visited my street on Monday:

A crow, perhaps distracted by a mite,

Waited a moment too long to take flight,

And met a car that refused to give way.

It's broken-hearted mate desperately cried

As the crow struggled hard against it's fate,

But, broken and battered, it was too late—

The crow succumbed to injury and died.

'Tis a common occurrence in this life
That Death, as pale and quiet as the moon,
Steals in and away with loved ones far too soon,
All those who live–at some point–know this strife,
But the mate of the crow whose life was shorn
Cried so pitifully that I too mourn.

Poetry Wednesday #44

Dancing with flour, apparently.  Neat image though.  Creative Commons through Pixabay.

Movement

I want to feel the fluidity of motion in my limbs,

The scrape of muscle against bone,

The pull and stretch of my joints

As my body shifts and flows.

I want to feel the arch of my spine,

The balance of my torso,

The elongation of my arms and legs,

Through my fingers and my toes.

I want to move, to dance, to move.

I want to spin and leap and laugh.

I want to bend and twirl and wobble

And fall.

Because

There's not much worse than not moving at all.

Poetry Wednesday #43

I apologize for missing last weeks poem.  It was drama-drama over here, and I was totally freaked out by the possibility of having to put down one of my cats.  Thankfully, Alice Strange (my youngest and least cat-like cat) is still with us.  But it was touch and go there for a while. ~Amber

http://www.ForestWander.com [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Afterlight 

The sky is filled with the souls of stars

Who burned themselves out reaching this world of ours.

When we look up to the night sky

We see but phantoms of an age gone by.
They light the road to the world of dreams
Where everything is and is not as it seems.
These specters dance all through the night
Then fade away at dawn's first light.