On Trust

My truest an affiance,
Heaven at your feet, abstinence
from now, patience and destiny.
Honoured promises, faithed forever
pending prophecies, preserving,

practicing patience, no fantasy
protected this, dream
recessed and withdrawn. Silence is
broken but no words penetrate rock.
My truest, a distanced memory

presented by hate. People move,
birds migrate, rivers swoon
to open seas, bliss betrayed
belittled today’s high, tomorrows
low. Unperceivable, perfect you

held me whole, primed my aphrodisiac
shadowed me then blew me to winds.
Deep, I rise and fall in my mental,
my truest be whole, hold me, trust.
You’re the bed of my restlessness,

the beating of storms pounding at sand,
eroding. You’re the motion of moving
forward when I pause, to breathe.
You’re the softest kiss upon my forehead
sinking me in possibilities, dying.

You’re the rustle of pages on a closing
book, the final chapter revealing.
My truest is metal and spiritual, speaking
clay and seed and breath, rolling torn flesh
earth bound, Heavens scent inches beyond
my grasp and you, a nightmare kiss.

(c) A Hannan

Poetry Challenge titled “Nightmare Kisses”

 

 

Poetry Challenge – A Letter To Myself

22 February 2012

 

Dear A,

The years pass by like landscapes painted and pinned to the walls of consciousness, moments caught like musical notes strung into a sprawling jazz piece where spontaneous brass and ivory court the senses with teachings of grandeur.

We hear only the sounds we permit ourselves to hear. Of them, take only a few, and of those few, experience them like you are made of sand. We are but travelers with a silent yearning. When the heart gestures at the bird in flight, follow it.

Abide generously when the mind searches for silence. It is your music it longs to hear. The mad man and the poet know the way. Wipe their tears with your palm and water the garden. Watch what blooms, illuminated and awakened, when you let go of false certainties.

The artist transfers the shades of their vulnerability onto canvas. Listen as the shadows fall away. Tomorrow the sun will set as always and man’s growth, will rise with the moon…

The dead bird, to dust births flowers. There is consequence, and consistency. The seasons, a great journey forward. This is harmonies dependance.

Cradle your melody upon your heart and corner the breast like vanishing dew. In your grasp, faith, for next season. The wound is where the music flows from. Everything has life.

And A, don’t let the piano play your song without you…

 

Sincerely,

Yours

 

 

 

 

NOTE: With thanks to ClownRhymes Poetry Challenge found at http://clownponders.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/348/#comment-1595