Poetry Everyday

[b1u3eyes]

Thanks @Edna tons for keep my topic alive.

I am officially back.

Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

Alexander Pope

 

[Edna]

The Last Room

Death does not knock.
It waits.
Silent in the corner,
like a shadow
that has learned patience.

It does not rush,
for it knows
all things return.
Stone crumbles.
Rivers dry.
Even the sun will kneel.

When it comes,
it is not thunder,
but the closing of a door
a sound so small,
yet so final
it splits eternity.

And what we are
memory, light,
the thin smoke of breath
slips quietly
into the last room,
where time no longer follows.

 

[Edna]

The Soul Unwoven

When death touches you,
it does not take the body first.
It unthreads the soul—
strand by strand,
pulling loose the knots
of love,
of anger,
of everything you ever were.

You feel yourself scatter—
a thousand fragments
like dust across an endless plain.

And yet…
in the scattering,
something remains.
Not a name,
not a face,
but the purest shape of you,
the ember that cannot be undone.

Perhaps that is eternity:
not a crown,
not a throne,
but the smallest spark,
refusing to die.

 

[Edna]

Death's Mirror

I have looked at death
and seen my own reflection.

It did not frighten me.
It was not a skull,
not a grave.
It was me,
as I truly am—
a being of ash and light,
a brief flame
in an endless night.

Death does not steal.
It reveals.
It shows us
that we were never flesh alone,
that what we called "life"
was only the shadow
of something greater.

And when it comes,
I will not run.
For death is not the opposite of life.
It is the hand that carries us
back to the source.

 

[b1u3eyes]

For whom the bell tolls

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

John Donne

 

[Edna]

Between Us, the Miles

There are miles between us,
but they are not empty.
They are filled with my thoughts of you,
with the echoes of your voice
I keep replaying in my chest.

Every step you take away
I measure with silence,
and every silence
becomes a prayer—
come back, come back, come back.

Yet even here,
even far,
I feel you—
like a thread running through the dark,
pulling me gently,
pulling me home.

 

[Edna]

The Ache of Absence

Distance is not the hardest part.
The hardest part is the almost.
Almost hearing your laughter
when the wind breaks right.
Almost feeling your touch
when my hand brushes the air.

You are everywhere—
in the sky,
in the night,
in the hollow pause
between heartbeats.

But never close enough
to hold.

And so longing
becomes a second pulse in me—
a rhythm that will not stop,
a hunger that refuses to fade.

 

[Edna]

The Bridge of Shadows

I have built a bridge of shadows
from my heart to yours.
It is made of memory,
of sleepless nights,
of words I never got to say aloud.

Though oceans split us,
though borders rise,
I cross it every day—
barefoot, trembling,
carrying the weight of my longing.

One day,
when distance shatters,
I will walk that bridge
and find you waiting,
and the ache of years
will finally collapse
into the warmth of your arms.

 

[b1u3eyes]

Hope

Hope was but a timid friend-
She sat without my grated den
Watching how my fate would tend
Even as selfish-hearted men.

She was cruel in her fear.
Through the bars, one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there
And she turned her face away!

Like a false guard false watch keeping
Still in strife she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping,
If I listened, she would cease.

False she was, and unrelenting.
When my last joys strewed the ground
Even sorrow saw repenting
Those sad relics scattered round;

Hope - whose whisper would have given
Balm to all that frenzied pain -
Stretched her wings and soared to heaven;
Went- and ne'er returned again!

Emily Jane Brontë

 

[Edna]

Islands

I am an island,
cut from the mainland
by waters no bridge can span.

I wave to the world
from my shore of silence,
but no boat comes,
no sails appear.

My voice drifts out,
a message in a bottle,
but the tide always
brings it back.

And so I learn—
isolation is not distance,
it is the prison
inside your chest.

 

[b1u3eyes]

The Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine, –
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

 

[Edna]

The Shadow Companion

Loneliness walks beside me
like a shadow that never leaves.

It does not speak,
but I feel its weight.
It presses on my shoulders,
sits across from me at the table,
lays down in my bed
when the lights go out.

I tell myself it is temporary,
that someone will come,
but nights turn to years,
and the shadow grows taller.

Perhaps this is all I am:
a vessel for echoes,
a heartbeat heard only by walls,
a soul speaking
to itself.