In this moment

Stop time III by vimark.jpg at deviantart.com

 

In this moment

There is no direction

Waiting for the next

A dawning reflection

 

In this moment

A quavering exhale

An enquiring judgement

To pass or fail

 

In this moment

Time does not stand still

yet trapped in this moment

by my own free will

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

waiting to exhale

this weeks get your poem on #38 at read write poem is “smell”. It was supposed to be a collaborative, but i wrote on my own.
After months of 100 degree plus temperatures and no rain, the weather gods are promising Edouard for us today. I hoped to capture my excitement and anticipation of those first moments of relief after a long drought.
 
 
Waiting to Exhale
 
too long has the sun risen and set
with no cloud to hide it
scorching rays burn day after day
blasting with it’s furnace heat
 
as i stand and watch
the old earth inhales deep into her chest
waiting, breath poised
for what has come at last
 
thunder rolls long and low
announcing the approach from a distance
anticipation rattles deep in her bones
in my bones, as we both wait to exhale
 
sudden wind blows tortured trees
dead leaves murdered by the heat
racing across a parched landscape
stinging dust blinding us
 
anticipation mounts as the sky
slowly begins to darken
as Sol gives up her mighty throne
fire flashes from above
 
as the first fat wet jewels fall
the earth opens her arms wide
she exhales her pent up breathe
sulfurous and acrid
 
scorched cracked earth
dead grasses, burnt leaves
long awaited exhale
a musty and pungent choking cloak
 
as the rain falls faster
the earth inhales again sucking
into herself the glorious relief
filling her up and rushing by in hurried rivulets
 
mourning those that didn’t survive
watching those that did fill with life
breathing deep now, her exhale washed sweet
by cooling healing rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

what dreams

 

 

 

a writing desk ill named
sits littered like a forest in fall
covered in curling and useless pages

 

 
words flow on crumpled waterfalls
in a stream around the chair legs
and the water is oh so cold
 
through the window, hiding maybe
from the troubadour’s bane
a figure reclines atop an ancient picnic table
 
a smile blushes her cheeks
the observer left to wonder
what dreams fly to her there