Mi na Samna (reposted from 11/2012

Min na Samhna

(November)

By

Lisa A.Williams

She came,

cloaked in gray.

Somber in her arrival

I sought the sun,

so well hidden

in her shadows

of dying vines, 

sleepy in fruitless wait

for rebirth.

She promised resurrection

but faith is hard

to come by

when hands clench

in remembrance

of all that has perished.

I have tried

 to embrace her

her icy  touch

reminding

that all things end.

Dream (Reposted from 09/05/12)

Dream

By

Lisa A.Williams

My offering-

was never enough.

Fair haired man,

sipping lemonade

in the garden

 knew

it was letting go

I was most afraid of.

White flowers-

 sinless

sun thirsty blooms;

release easy for them,

willingly whisked away

by soft sweeping wind,

scattering their petals

  in the hills beyond

into a summer snow

embracing the freedom

of rootless release

from dying vines

of a soured season.

Fair haired man-

led the way,

I followed .

Turning back, I saw

my chains unravel

into pure earth,

blanketed

in summer snow,

bittersweet taste

                                                                     upon my tongue.

Fences

Fences

By

Lisa A.Williams

Tell me

of the fences,

places you’ve crossed

and climbed

of the splintered flesh

which has healed

when the chain was broken,

 the gate opened

where the once petrified fear

crumbled in its stone

and life began anew

once more-

behind those planks of painted white,

hiding the worn and weathered

hurt you left behind.

Clarity

Clarity

By

Lisa A.Williams  

Wound upon wound

all pretense-

anemic suture.

How truth bleeds

 through white silence-

.

Crimson shades 

 the pureness 

of our dreams long held in

 hunting hearts,

tasting each others hunger-

the nearness of it always.

 

He Sang of Chains

                     

He Sang of Chains

By

Lisa A.Williams

He sang of chains,

wishing to be free

of cheating hearts-

 love

he couldn’t let go of.

He sang of doubtful minds,

 cold he couldn’t melt;

                                                     

 lonliness

which made him cry.

A young man’s words

my father sang

in a low melodic voice,

which brought him

home

 beneath a familiar sky.

.

Gray

Gray

By

Lisa A.Williams

Dark day

still morning,

not even the disturbance

of breeze to blow through

the bareness.

What gifts do you have

to offer

with no visible beauty

beneath the gray?

A sleepy kind of nostalgia

calling me inward

where poems

                                                                       wait to be born.

Horizon

Horizon

By

Lisa A.Williams

I look out,

 onward

to where earth meets sky

spectrum of

rainbows

holding promise

of “gold”

never enough to fill

our pockets

so fleeting

in its ethereal haze

leaving us

always

                                                                     in want of more