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11 days February 3, 2017

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Today is the day
I was meant to be born
My mother alone
My father at war

How cruel I was
making my mother wait,
11 days late

Even at my earliest moments
I was hesitant.
Afraid to begin.

How worried she must have been
after four losses
driven to continue, to try
no matter the cost

I was born from determination
from a love so strong
it did not stop

I hope I was worth the wait, Mom.

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Mother of Gods January 31, 2017

Posted by findingherforte in poetry, Uncategorized, writing.
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Seven climbed the
green foothills
made a camp
and slept so still

Eight there were
when morning came
without a reason,
without a name

Did you give birth?
They asked of her
“I did not wake,
I did not stir.”

Yet there he was
A life brand new
wrapped in cloth
of gold and blue

 

 

 

Note: Sorry it has been awhile. Poetry is something that kind of happens to me, instead of me conjuring it. You know?

Andromeda May 7, 2016

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My gilded warrior.
Your armor was forged
By starlight
Your aura undefinable
By mortal eyes.
There were no others like you
And there never will be again.

You took an oath.
You pledged your heart
And body to my cause
I trusted and loved you
More than I can describe

In an otherwise ordinary moment
You had an opportunity to
Prove your loyalty
And you did
Swiftly
And without hesitation

I can still hear the ringing dissonance of battle
And the awful, heart stopping
Crunch
Of your shield taking its final blow,
Your starlight scattering, falling
To the ground to be snuffed out.
Your armor stood between me
And what could have been my end

We both knew that someday it
Might come to this
But we pushed those thoughts away.
Optimistic fools.

When the stardust settled,
And I picked myself up,
Your broken body remained still.
Silent.
I curse myself for ever accepting your oath
And putting you in harm’s way
But I know in my heart
This is what you would have wanted.

A warrior’s death.

Resonance November 9, 2015

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Precise pitch, tuning,
and time
Yes, these are the
basics that maketh
a song
but bare minimum components
leave the mouth dry
and the listener unfulfilled.

To truly create music,
flavorful and full bodied,
you must be the river
shaping a canyon
molding the clay to
leave behind something
that resonates

(I recommend
gentle hands to pull
the strings
and warm breath
to make the sound
bloom)

The bard knows this
recipe well.
Boots off, he
keeps a foot on the
floor
to stay grounded

turning memory to music
taste, smell, and touch
translated wordlessly
filling my belly
and heart

How did you know
the harmony of my
past?

inspired by a music filled evening, November 7th 2015, performed by Damon Buxton

Slumbering Peaks July 22, 2015

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High above where the air is thin
the fir-backed giants slumber.
Sleeping deep and dreaming big
their earthly lives none remember.

The trees sway and rocks tumble
the dreaming giants quake.
Prophecised or otherwise
for reasons lost, the mountains wake.

Pulling up roots and bending their knees
tree trunks crack against ancient bones.
Much has changed since last it woke
empires lost and new seeds sown

Shaken by sights of smoke and tar,
it sleeps to escape the age of war.

Twist of Fate March 20, 2015

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He grabbed the necklace
around her neck
and pulled down and away
but the clasp was too strong
so she bent at the waist,
at the strength of it.

It dug into the skin around her neck
the chain of fate,
of burden, and
of power.
She smiled at her feet
and took this moment to
gather herself for his
next actions
his knuckles were white
as his grasp on the pendant
tightened.

She gathered her will,
her faith,
and her courage
and it manifested.
In the palms of her hands,
glowing violet and pulsing

The pendant burned his hand
and he stumbled back.
The witch stood straight again.
Thankfully he had remembered to cast
his eyes away,
her spell broken and powerless
without the windows
to his soul

Drought March 4, 2015

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The well had gone dry
it was sudden
but I was not surprised
Not a drop left
no evidence of water
except memory

The ground surrounding it,
cracked and dry,
giving no sustenance to
the nature nearby
soon, all the flowers would wilt
and the dirt would turn to dust

Until, one day
it’s near impossible to believe
anything ever grew here

Every so often an attempt
is made to resurrect
what once was
to no avail
even things that once
encouraged and nourished
this land and filled
this well
have little to no effect

Angry.
I’m just so angry.
Why?
Why has nothing grown?
Seeds and soil
gone to waste

And then rain,
rain out of nowhere
I didn’t even notice
the clouds
Will it be enough?

As the drops hit my
face, I realize

Yes. It’s a start.

Tight-rope March 13, 2014

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Tight-rope walking with a
rope around my waist
hanging onto memories
of times I cannot place
the words are formed upon
the lips my
fingers used to trace
and I know that I will fall
if I keep
moving at this
pace
but if I stop to face the ground
my work will be a waste

Showmanship September 30, 2013

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Everything is dying
piles and piles of
colorful, crunchy corpses
litter the streets
It’s chaos
In the dark, when
dead things are hard
to forget
they are washed away,
pushed aside so that we may get on
with our daily routines
death lingering only in
our peripheral
and easily ignored

But if you ask me,
the pinks and blues
to come
are nothing compared
to a last minute attempt
at showmanship

Oblation July 5, 2013

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Through painted glass
it watches music
rise to meet the
ceilings tall
Hungrily, it waits
unmoving
whilst reed and wood
prepare its meal

Although opaque
the window view,
the subtle things
catch its eye
The ebb and flow
of waves of sound
a pleading voice,
a servant’s cry

A hum of air
against the walls
the wind it roars
its loud applause
Dancing rain upon
the roof
cheering loud
and without pause

A deity with
open arms
as if to catch
the divine sound
Made from earth
and hands of man
a purer art
cannot be found