The Poetry Den

Numb Having gazed upon the snow-capped trees, in the dead of winters height How stark the picture painted so, this image in the night For it wasn’t quite so long ago, that branch and leaf were one A work of art so perfect, before all would come undone Yet for reasons neither seen nor known, an honest mystery The beauty of the canvas gone, a brutal travesty Yet gazing at the silent scene, it makes you wonder so If tree and bark can feel the hurt, how would it let you know Could it feel the pain of flowers, being ripped out from the ground Would it recognize the anguish, or hear its stinging sound Perhaps the grief of falling clouds, being squeezed for all its rain Yearning to be whole again, looking to regain I guess we’ll never really know, why they can be so numb Maybe that’s the secret way, to stop and overcome

Yesterday Yesterday’s mirage has gone  the way of melting snow As wise men pull at silver beards  searching where to go Beyond horizons dark with age  the bygones mock and laugh Tormented by the spectacle  afflicted by the gaffe Yet yesterday seems further still  a measure without time The crown we wear around our eyes  to shield us from the crime A false and shallow sense of ease  preys upon my mind That yesterday can come again  to mend the much maligned And now we sit in solitude a victim of the plague A hostage of the circumstance  our purpose now so vague My hands are bound, yet still are free to wither and to wilt To choose to be confined by fear  to wallow in our guilt For the silence is my audience  the empty night my stage The tapestry awaits my touch  upon its empty page And even though I’m breaking bread without you in my sight The need remains to rise above  to overcome the fright To know that we are not a

Winter's Tree A rustic ancient eminence stands covered in a veil Vigilantly listening to the bare and empty wail As golden threads gently descend  To reflect upon the peace  On the raw and untouched beauty Of a down softer than fleece It stands tall and imposing  Yet somehow not at all  As if a wilted legacy laid to rest after a fall He stands waiting for a crown to come A mantle made for shade When then the sun will shine again For the will to be remade

Hidden Scars If rivers were the tears we cried, what would the oceans be If hills the stones upon our heart, what mountains would we see If trees like worries touch the sky, what could the forests do If feathered clouds can turn so gray , what would thunder mean to you As raindrops falling in the night, obscuring shining stars A battered guise, so elegant, veiling hidden scars As puddles form beneath the feet, of lost and plodding souls What purpose can there really be with one so full of holes The steep and arduous price to pay to keep up the facade Reeks of senseless trial, of fortune that is flawed Yet maintain that shallow false veneer, is something that we must For if it fails we crumble so, and with us all we trust