Impressions

Your thoughts applied

so physically; thick and

barely formed, to paint

the essence critically;

dark colours, blurred,

forlorn. And in the drip

of wet, soft fear, the tones

reduced my heart, with

grey and black and solemn

strokes, tearing me apart.

No light allowed, no sun

could reach, no play of hope

bestowed, and sunset drew

the dawn’s bright face;

death’s cock would

mournful crow.

Meet the Bar with impressionism

 

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days

days write large in moments,
weeks which seal the hours,
months to make it solid;
so the years are formed.

in the drip of minutes, in
the fall of days, in the hold
of months, we see… our
lives are full displayed. 

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Years

Years turn unseen pages,

hide the image fast,

counting through the

moments; from young

to old, we’re cast.

Yet in that flow of life,

eternal lives between,

the truth of who we are –

however we are seen.

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To speak

To speak when someone

cannot listen, to talk

when someone will not

hear; to share when

someone will not

receive –  such are the

deep, dark moments

of relationship and love.

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Despair

In that moment when hope
screams hollow, lost for all
time, falling down into a
darkness which cannot be

imagined, and yet which is
always feared; hidden from
sight, but not thought; that
is when despair pegs itself

to the line of consciousness,
held in place, at the mercy
of the winds, and blazing
sun, for what seems eternity.

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Memento

It has faded, the image
of Christ, we bought in
Russia. Neither of us
believed, but valued

the art of the icon, in
which others invest so
much faith, hope and
trust, deserving to have

it more than we did,
and yet, perhaps in that
place of non-belief, we
put our coins on the

counter, as an act of
trust, hope and faith,
even if we did not know
it, or, even dared to think

that it might possess a
power beyond its small,
material self, which,
while faded, in that time

bleeding which happens
to all things, still offers
beauty, grace, and a faint
sense of pure possibility.

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Reflected

Reflected, in the mirror
of your eyes, remembering
in that dream of who you
were, who I was, or might

have been, if things had
been different, if the depths
of your being, had, like the
lake, flung back the truth

of who you were, who I
was, or might be; and yet
even if it had, I would only
ever have been a reflection.

https://redwolfpoems.wordpress.com/2017/03/05/prompt-for-rwj-prompt-245/

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