Night

Night

By

Lisa A.Williams

Beneath this sky I cannot

recognize myself

so far off in the distance

disappearing with the vanishing

light of day.

A rise of feeling,

surges through the stillness

so dark, not even shadows dance

as I stand in this far off place

of knowing.

Brigid

Brigid

(Celtic Goddess of poetry, inspiration,birth
and unity)

By

 Lisa A.Williams

                                                                               

Goddess of fire,

whose gifts

forged

the love of words,

healing through birth

and unity.

Born at dawn

 with the rising Sun

who crowned her queen
of rhyme and reason,
knowing she would lead
to those abandoned rooms
we lock with restraint,
fearing the truth may
slip beneath like
a stream of light
edging its way into
open space.

                                                                                       

Grand Canyon

Grand Canyon

By

Lisa A.Williams

I look to the depths

far, far below

to crevices, caverns 

formed long ago,

to twisting trails,

ledges steep,

winding rivers with 

pools so deep.

Under the gaze

of Wotan's Throne,

a river of scarlet steals

mammoth stone.

High above in heaven's eye,

the Temple of Vishnu

guards changing sky.

Mountains greet 

with great surprise,

cascades of color,

with each sunrise.

Golden walls with

lavender hues,

shades of pink 

and smoky blues.

Rainbows of stone

dance in fading light,

lengthening shadows

with the approach 

of night.

Distant howls echo

in black skies,

piercing the silence

with lonely cries.

Into the depths

of the purple abyss,

surrounded by towering

crimson cliffs.

Showers of turquoise

bathe ancient walls,

sculpting new images

as water falls.

Bright Angel Point

in creation's glory,

from the beginning

knew the story

of a piece of

untamed land ,

how it succumbed

to nature's hand.

Woven by time

into glorious form,

witness to age

and frequent storm.

Beneath an endless sky

of change,

the molten earth

expanded range,

took over more of

untamed ground,

transforming stone

into craggy mound.

Watchtowers rose

from the silent earth,

each new creation

celebrating its birth.

Below an air of

altered shade

a new foundation of 

world was made.

A brush in hand,

the painter can see

the miracle of nature

and all it can be.

Trying to capture 

the beauty of age

seems impossible 

with human gauge.

So much to take in,

the eyes try to behold

an ancient image of

creation so bold.

Formed by ice

 and melting snow,

an artist's canvas 

sketched long ago.

 

The Skin You Don't Know (reposted from 09/2012)

The Skin You Don’t Know

By

Lisa A.Williams

Wear it gently-

feel its familiar sheath-

Hold

 the one it was born to,

in all its keloidal ache

and

need.

Savor timeless

brine

trickling down crimson faces

burnt by enduring

winds.

Wear it

until it molds to the shape

of all

it must embrace.

Words

Words

By

Lisa A.Williams

Speak to me

in this silent moment

of remembering

all that has passed.

Help me tell the story

I own-

bound in some ways

frayed in others.

As I came alone

I will leave alone

 with attachments,

with loss that lifted

my spirit in search of whys

and pleas for no more.

It was during this journey,

in the stillness of a reflective

oasis, goodbyes

were remembered

with that ache of emptiness

 time can soothe

                                                                       but not erase.

Spring

Spring

by

Lisa A.Williams

Persephone rises

from the dark

 confines of earth,

 free once again

 from winter's grave,

no longer a slave 

in frozen wait.

Nature knows the body

of her song,

 hears it in the wind

as her gentle

 whispering  awakens

a sleepy world.

Cinders (reposted from 08/29/2012)

Cinders

By

Lisa A.Williams

Anointed-

unknowingly

by brick

or board.

Trash,

they were called

those tow headed girls

wanting to purge

this dry christening

which scathed

skin and soul,

its adornment

crushing the

childhood chant,

“names will never

hurt me.”

Lingering lyrics-

notes carried high

by those who sang of

castaways,

smelling of smoke

and cinder.

Undetected

by thought or word,

somehow they knew

the fire was always

smoldering.

Trash-

to be discarded,

unworthy.

They were singed

yet somehow

rose from the flames

and bore their blistering-

purified.