The space between heartbeats

The wind made the green grass dance and wave,
As the sun caught the traces of evening dew,
And the falling yellow leaves.
There and then I fell in love with the world,
In the space between heartbeats,
Before one thought could follow another
And tell me what I wanted was not what was there
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Ever Restless

I’m looking for new challenges,
Like a sailor bored with the charms of port-
He smells the sea and cannot forget
The promise of new lands,
Of water that stretches further than the eye can see,
Of nothing but crashing waves and possibility,
Like the sea I am –
Ever restless,
Stormy or calm,
I flow in wave and firth,
With the pale moon of my desire,
Ever cloaked in a stormy spray.

Deep Hidden Treasure

Deep hidden treasure,

Lost under boulder and stone,

No self left in light!

Submitted for The Purple Treehouse Haiku Challenge 🙂

The ocean still his master

There is nothing worse
Than a man who thinks himself wise:
No longer subject to temptations,
Flattery and the charms of sex.
Life will show him the error of his thinking,
Pillars thrown down he lies in ruins,
Bemoaning the bad fortune he himself has sown,
With arrogance, with condescension,
Self-defeating cleverness,
Let him learn the lessons of pre-school again and again,

Until he can walk on two feet,
Sea legs earned through falling
A thousand times –
The ocean still his Master.

And the moon looked on…

Another inspiring challenge from Sonia – Moonstruck, another little story…Actually its not as little as it should be  – but at 564 words its my best effort at brevity! I hope you enjoy…

The raggedy face of the moon loomed large over warm night’s happy revelry. Lovers coiled and blood red wine sloshed noisily among the swaying trees.  They danced to celebrate the passing sun in shadowed time with hidden sins, becoming by night what day would judge with too much black and white.

Michael the pock faced boy darts amongst the drunken hoard. His quick fingers harvest fearlessly. The lord has opened his gates to all and Michael means to take his due from those of better birth. They won’t keep him down tonight, not whilst the moon is crowned with the smoke of a passing squall, in from the sea like a hungry crew out for mischief. He is out for mischief too, if only Sofia the pretty barmaid would return his stare.  But Sofia looks to that pleasant copse where the blacksmith’s son followed like a man possessed the redheaded stable-girl. If only that were me she sighs, between these thighs I’d make him happy. Her dimpled smile briefly dazzles a passing guardsman.

‘Ho there pretty!’ he cries. ‘I do find myself in love…’ his eyes drop, ‘with one of your finest ales!’

No love for me tonight, Sofia sighs, unless you count the thief who moons so long he almost drops his ill gained wares.

‘Come pretty wench,’ the soldier drawls,’ Serve me a beer, and if you’ll sit on my lap, I’ll give you a child to bounce on yours!’

His companions laugh as she grows pink. Let him have his frothy beer, she’ll not crawl.

‘Leave her alone!’ the thief boy declares, ‘Sofia is made for better.’

‘Is that so?’ retorts the soldier, one arm snaking around her waist as his sword snakes for the boy’s throat.

‘I’ll cut you to ribbons man. I’ll paint you red with your own blood.’ His point draws aside the thief’s shirt, ‘A haul to make a rich man blush. Get him boys!’

And so the fox bounds from baying hounds, through dancing trees and frozen humans. Time suspends its next tick. The boy rounds laden tables and pitches into the forest, floor all adorned with lovers. Shouts startle the redheaded girl from encircling arms.

‘What’s that?’ she cries as a pale shape passes by.

‘It’s just the moon’ says the blacksmith’s son.

‘Only if it’s on two legs,’ she replies, ‘and fleeing swords of dawn.’

The moon looks on with a crooked smile. The night’s entertainment has her in good cheer even as she surrenders the sky hated sister bright.  Let her have the day, when night’s in such wondrous disarray!

The prince of thieves, pock faced as the moon herself, springs free from the sheltered copse, soldiers cursing in his wake, and jumps, falling, flailing over the cliff side all in gloom. Past gloaming waves he crashes, beyond fierce rocks, and into the sea’s cold embrace.  He struggles in the deep dark. These coins will kill me, he thinks as they fall like sand beneath his kicks. Lightened, he rises like a bubble. A little skiff, white as his love and cunningly harbored, meets his drenched, desperate hands. He slithers aboard the little ship, catching breath. In his pockets nothing remains, the sea has taken all…save a single gold coin. He holds it up – this King’s ransom, this sun bright coin, and with it all thoughts of moon and night are put away.

Freedom

What is freedom?
No rules, no rhyme
No responsibilities and no meaning…
Or swimming like a fish
Through the contrary currents of life?
Or simply freedom to choose
A good attitude?

New Shoots

In the darkness of the earth
None shall see the sun,
And yet it is there:
Waiting, wondering when growth will come.
In the pitch of night,
Nothing is more certain
Than light will crack the dark,
A pendulum that must swing up
As surely as down,
A child that must grow
As surely as we must die,
And if the seed of death is carried by life,
Then death must usher in new life;
A potential bursting into being,
Rocks tumbling down a hill.
Let us not rejoice in the hidden acorn,
Nor the mighty oak we may one day be,
But the first green shoots of morning,
The dew not yet trampled,
By the Kingdom of the dawn.

The Sword

There are many parts of a life,
That make up the whole,
And many components of a man
That forge his character.
Chill winds and winter snow,
Or sun and sea,
Each can test a man and temper his steel,
The mix of the iron the bough
That breaks or bends,
In the storm of his making
 

I am completely overwhelmed to have won the perfect poet award for week 48. More than anything it wonderful to be read and have so many great comments. Here’s to all you readers and writers out there, and all the inspiration you pass around, like torches burning in the depths of night.

 
I would like to nominate: Braga

Words…

Words can hint at depths too deep to swim,
Gulfs too wide for fragile man,
Lives too numerous for this heart
To beat them all;
Winter’s breath of sorrow,
Spring’s new born youth,
The juice of life freshly pressed
On the page for easy reading.
And yet…the void of our incomprehension calls;
Tears for that so far beyond us,
Like a child’s first glimpse of love
In the eyes of passing strangers.

(C) Copyright Mark B Williams 2014
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