|Art, by definition, is shared.|
Uncounted EyesStep outsideUncounted Eyes by Rashavarak
cool, damp night breeze
bundled-up smell of layered wet leaves
and nothing to see for a few minutes
eventually giving way to dark outlines against dimwhite cloud
slow moving, gentle yet heavy air
beneath it all
a constant muted whistling humm
muffled timid trill
That once, on hotter, greener, golden days rang a cacophonic symphony
exultation of being, heard but rarely seen
felt but rarely touched
the universe in experience thrall
watching itself with uncounted eyes
naming itself it with unending chords never known before
louder than sleep in a heat-lightning deep night sky...
now low slow nighttime clouds
pull Autumn to a close, cooling blanket
uncountable pairs of wings slow their song
retreating from the yellowing shrinking canopy to leeside branches
blending there in chorus with the drying leaves applauding in the damp dark wind...
"The days I was I take to sleep. I am here, and now I go."
Breathe deep and slow
darken the lights and pull Nightime close, cool
My GrandpaHis wrinkled blue eyes remind me of an ocean,My Grandpa by sam1314
Deep and filled with emotions of years long passed,
His features must have surely once been seen as strong,
But now they look like that of a broken old man.
Hunched over ever so slightly,
Are broad and now so very slim,
Below them his arms,
May have once painted a picture of masculinity,
Though now they sort of look like twigs.
Purple blotches of bruises on his arms testify to the idea,
That his years on Earth have taken their toll,
And made his body frail and slightly weak.
His large hands hang limply from his thin wrist,
Shaking with Arthritis just a little,
Balanced delicately on his cane,
Supporting his weary bones made weak from the burden he once bore.
Spread over all of this is brown,paper like skin,
Reminiscent of crinkled paper,
Completing the look of a feeble old man.
Though as if this is not enough,
His breathing is unsteady,
Coming in ragged gasps,
A result of Emphysema and to many long years of smoking.
As I sit
otherlandhiotherland by turquoise-truck
false headlights on country roads
are dial numbers she holds to her
a puzzle piece leaking dreams,
another big picture that she needs to fill in
but leave life in the blanks
it's raining tonight in columbus
if she could be lost going nowhere,
it would be now
it rings once
in the not-quite silence
glass windows, paper stacked problem stacked tables
whenever you spell it.