Love Is……….

Love is the touch that renders me still,

And Love is the hunger that I cannot fill,

Love is the kindling that feeds a wild fire,

And Love is the flame that reaches up higher.

 

Love is the scent of an apple blossom tree,

And love is the flower that you open in me,

Love is the daisy that is linked by a chain,

And love is the sunshine that comes before rain.

 

Love is the breath that is whispered on skin,

And love is the blood that simmers within,

Love is the heat of the passion beneath,

And love is the wanting that I cannot sheath.

 

Love is the melee that rages for peace,

And love is the prisoner that yearns for release,

Love is the conflict that fights as we mate,

And love is the soldier whose battle I sate.

 

Love is the essence of all that we share,

And love is my reason to think that you care,

Love is the words that still lay unspoken,

And love is the wish for just a small token.

 

Love is the ache that I carry inside,

And love is the struggle I have with my pride.

Love is the one thing I know you won’t give,

And love is the reason that makes me forgive.

 

 

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The Bus Stop

BusStopBlog1

Raindrops that echo against a glass pane,

And rivulets of water that run through the grain,

An old wooden stand that shelters the bleary,

The workers, the travellers, the old and the weary.

 

The yellows and browns, oranges and blues,

The purples and greens and iridescent hues.

A shield of umbrellas that cocoon the intrepid,

The foot soaked army of the wet heavy headed.

 

A girl with a teddy bear holds a warm hand,

And listens to voices she cannot understand,

Whispers of memories and hopes still to come,

Echoes that ricochet then scatter so random.

 

The bus stop is teeming with bodies’ en mass,

There is no disparity and no difference in class,

The poor and the lowly the rich and the bright,

Await their own passage and a fleeting respite.

 

Who Am I?

 

I am the shadow that dances on walls,

I am the echo of the rain as it falls,

I am the scent of where you have been,

I am the feel of a touch that’s unseen.

 

I am the essence of all that you dream,

I am your fantasy both wild and extreme,

I am the yearning that scorches your soul,

I am the power that renders you whole.

 

I am the darkness that drinks from the light,

I am the hunger that burns in the night,

I am the heat that boils in your blood,

I am the breath that drowns in the flood.

 

I am the stealer of soft fallen tears,

I am the total and sum of your fears,

I am the emptiness that watches and waits,

I am your death, just as nature dictates.

 

A Door for all Seasons

Once again time for the brilliant Friday Fictioneers (on a Wednesday). A 100 word (no firing squad if you’re over) photo prompt from the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Try it yourself and read the others that participate.

I’m still unable to remove the rhyming disease that’s taken over my fingers, so yet again mine is a poem, but I’m taking my medicine and hope to soon see the return of my prose. Perhaps!

Copyright - Rich Voza

If seasons were doors that could be opened anew,

How would you pick which one to go through,

Would you follow the order that nature foretold,

Or would you alter the path and watch it enthralled.

 

Would you follow the reds of the autumn hues,

With a summer that dazzles in iridescent blues,

Would you keep the door shut on white snowy winters,

That freezes your blood from your toes to your fingers.

 

If you could sway nature with an act of free will,

Would it welcome the change or drown in the thrill.

Would the earth still revolve or tilt to one side,

Perhaps it’s a good thing that you don’t decide.

 

Return Of The Fairy King

This is my first attempt at The Sunday Whirl, I’m a sucker for a good prompt.  Every Sunday a list of words are posted and you must write a story or poem with the words provided (forms of the words are fine and you don’t have to use them all, but that’s all part of the fun). Take a look at the link to check it out for yourself and have a go.

127

There once was a forest of great towering oak,

Where columns of russet would bend when you spoke,

And thick woven blankets of olive and green,

Would dance in the moonlight and sing of what’s been.

Where whispers of spirits and times that had past,

Would surrender their stories and watch them recast.

 

Secrets once shared with the good and the brave,

Are carried on stories from cradle to grave,

Of wood sprites and fairies and water nymphs too,

Peering from shadows they still watch anew.

For only the strong and the pure and the good,

Can battle the claws of this mystical wood.

 

Clues that are hidden and buried around,

Are concealed by the apples fallen to ground.

But follow the rash of the ants through the pile,

And you will find treasure to haunt and beguile.

A magic elixir to fight the black moon,

There is no escape, no imp is immune.

 

Let the imps drink of the elixir three times,

And watch as the shackles rise up like the vines.

To exile the darkness and return what had been,

A velvet green valley and a blossoming ravine.

And then he will soar on a wide golden wing,

The one who was banished, the lost fairy king.

 

The Autumn Wind

 

The winds of change are closing in, a whispered swansong on its wing,

Not so loud as to cause a stir, but a listless lion with a languid purr,

His hunger weaned on summer’s breast that’s filled and sated now at rest,

And a golden mane once scorched by sun is fading now for it’s begun.

 

Shades of olive and forest green, leaves that dull and lose their sheen.

Radiant browns and orange hues replace the old with shades of new.

A scarf of gold and red dry leaf is tied so loose they fall beneath,

To lay a blanket under feet, that’s thick and deep and soon replete.

 

The north wind comes with battle cry, a mournful moan and a soft felt sigh,

A lonely, wild, majestic blast, that hurries forth the fears of past.

Mournful murmurs snake around to shake the boughs that dance on ground,

It strips the trees of all their glories, changes tales and alters stories.

 

Moonlight rises early evening and bids farewell to the daylight leaving,

Shadows follow without sound, they can’t be caught, they can’t be found,

Through the glows of bonfires spent, come the ghosts of which I’d dreamt,

Witches, ghouls and demons too, they come with the wind, I know it’s true.

 

Darkened whispers on your breath, tales of horror and tales of death.

The wind it blankets all around, it fuels the fear and obscures the sound,

It taps the branches at your window and makes you cower from under pillow,

The Autumn wind you can depend, will awake the lion and he’ll be no friend.