Tag: simile

The sacred spaces

The spaces once held sacred are destroyed

Like Salisbury plain where sheep could safely graze

Now for soldiers use and practice Wars.

The Bedouin who inhabit deserts cry

The Negev is no longer a free space

The places for creation are destroyed

Before the birth of Christ, they wandered by Their little tents and camels no disgrace

Deserts are for practising new Wars

To shepherds and their flocks we say,Good bye.

The land is used for shooting, so debased

The places for creation are destroyed

The Lamb of God is fined and unemployed

Search for peace, be treated with distaste

Deserts are for practising new Wars

Of the Spirit, is there any trace

As the Lord God turns away his Face?

The spaces once held sacred are destroye

Now for soldiers use and Final War.

Copyright@Kathrerine

Love must be so pliant

Love must be so pliant ,
like a blade of grass,

Bowing to the wind,
till the storm has passed.

Love is enigmatic
Like the sphinx’s smile.

Waiting for an answer,
Nothing is on file.

Love is often near us
Yet we do not see.

Sometimes where we are
Is just the place to be

A heart adrift

My heart is like a rowing boat adrift
Whose occupant has fallen overboard
The empty vessel drifts through deep sea mist.
And in his pearl filled ears the deep sea roars.

Just as the boat drifts mapless,so do I.
My maps were drawn for quite another sea
My captain’s taken leave and now I cry
As if the drowned soul might just be me.

Yet on the sea bed mysteries abound;
Such wonders and such magic there displayed.
Yet I wonder if  it is my  fate to drown
And to a memory I’ll  slowly fade.

Maps are no more certainties than hints.
Between the lines lies gold from other mints

Like startled flowers

lit-up-hands

The hailstones pounded the window
as violently,as if they had minds
bent on killing;soldiers in rows and ranks rushing onwards;
as each fell another and another took its place.
Cold and mathematical they had a simple precise force and geometry.
Into this warlike scene,floated two white butterflies
Crossing and recrossing the spaces between the hail
they followed a random path;now together.now apart
Their unplanned,loving dance leads to mating, procreation and a future
while the hailstones can only die.
Seems sometimes fragile freedom is more productive
than the fierce mechanical modern world can imagine.
I see the butterflies now like startled flowers
hunting for the sun

The butterfly

A Butterfly on a flower
A Butterfly on a flower (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Butterfly on flower with fake eyes on the wings
Butterfly on flower with fake eyes on the wings (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The butterfly is like a flower
which moves its station every hour.
Oh,happy is he on the wing.
The vision makes me quick to sing.
The flower is open in the sun,
And to its heart, true love shall come.
The bees shall feast and fly replete
With nectar they are now full sweet.
I sing of color and of love,
Blessings that rain down from above.
I wish to be a flower too.
Ah,that the bee could but be you.

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The world is a verb

It appears the world is a verb not a noun.
I’ve had my suspicions of course,
I know that’s how I see,
Not yet having achieved object constancy
I see afresh,which is alarming until one adapts.
I see the way you see on Heroin,
But for me,it’s free.
I never knew if mother was the same person today,
Or some new other mother.
She did have the same hands
But her eyes altered.
I gave them all the same name,
Like a folder on the computer.
Let’s see how many mothers I created!
In the end I had to go to school
To get some kind of safety net.
We had alternative explanations there
Like we were saved from sin.
But who can save us from multiple mothers?
I never let on,though I felt stressed sometimes
By all the changes.
Couldn’t things be more fixed?
Dreams end,but life goes on
Being a verb it has to act, you see.
If it were a noun it would be enclosed
By many parameters,grids like stunning geometric orgasms,
Quite beautiful to look at it but never felt.
Feeling is the art of life.
Art is the life of the feelings.
What are the feelings of the feelings?
Who understands the heart of Art?

I love you like

I love you like I’d love a black walnut.
You’re so rare I can’t eat you.
I’ll put you in my pocket
and take you with me
when I go in town
I’ll feel your crinkles and your wrinkles,
But nobody will know.

 
I love you like I’d love a comice pear.
I’ll put you in a golden bowl.
I’ll let the sun shine on you,
Till you are ripe.
I’ll put you in my bag,
Take you to a meadow of buttercups
And devour you.
And nobody will know.

 
I love you like I’d love a flower.
I’ll give you my best vase.
I’ll stand it in the window.
Then I’ll look at you all day
With my peripheral and my central vision,
Till your pattern is embedded in my brain.
I’ll sleep well and dream of you all night.
I’ll wake up and remember it all.
And nobody will know.