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The hands of the great clock face in the tower ceased to count time. She heard the whispers of a melody on the breeze; a soft tinkling of wind chimes furled with the slow and sombre notes of piano keys. The grandeur of the room lay only half lost behind the crumbling sandstone and fallen leaves blown in through the roof, from which, bars of dusty sunlight filtered down; illuminating the past. Illuminating what once was. What now is.
With the turning
of that Great Wheel,
most surely I have known you
before now—and I am yet
to know you still.
Each of us
in quest for life:
to live by the sinking sun
in the West; lie down
with me and rest
in those late-summer fields,
under slow-yellowing leaves
as we day-dream of happier times.
To love one another
beneath the light
of a bright moon,
or those glinting stars
that are destined to fall
is when we’ll silently crawl
back to sleep; the warm Earth
destined to keep us safe
for a time, until
the age-old quest—now
behind—begins anew. . .
Most surely I have known you
before now, and how I long
to know you still.
©March 23rd, 2020: H. M. Smith, All Rights Reserved.
As I gaze out over the horizon
trying to remember
the way things used to be,
I think about those dearest
friends whom I so desperately
long to see.
Love spells done in the dark
of your heart on a lost other half;
(I hear you) repeating
my name, over and over
again; giving my love letters
up to the rain; fingertips
ink-stained; a mind
running on regret
and my name; over,
and over again.
©2020 H. M. Smith, All Rights Reserved.
The roses and pearls you left
on my pillow—reminders of you
remain in my bed—I drowned
the love letters in the river instead,
washing your words away to the sea
with the thousand tears I hoped
would bring you back to me.
But all is lost. You are
not found. And so, like
Ophelia, I am fallen
beneath the surface—in
sickness—and drowned
by the very cruelty
of you. . .
©2020 H. M. Smith, All Rights Reserved.
[Image credited to the photographer: Monia Merlo.]
She hides herself in her poetry
within corners of the web
to be read by eyes
strange to her; to Continue reading “A Snapshot of the Artist as a Young Woman”
Lilac-blossom clouds against a translucent sky, lazily drifting; the passing of time. Sunsets like these seen only once in a lifetime, a glass of something in one hand with your other hand in mine.
Breeze in my hair; a rustling of leaves; the gentle rushing sound of the not-too-distant stream… Dusk wraps around us, and you wrap your arms around me. With half-ladened eyes we await the sunrise, when suddenly
you look at me and the voices of the night are drowned in a whispered dream:
“Do you take me—”
“For all that you are. And me?”
“I do.”
“Then so it must be.”
©2020 H. M. Smith, All Rights Reserved.
She keeps the relics of a lost love
in the flower box his roses came in.
Blood-red roses in place of him; Continue reading “Epilogue”
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When you Don't Know Which Witch is a B*tch
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An author of poetry, short stories, creative writing, daydreams, and starry thoughts.
A collection of poems
Patience...
The More the Merrier Path
Original Nature Photojournalism
Poet. Writer. Photographer.
A Little Writing Workshop of Horrors.
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the literary asylum
Stories and photos from Scotland
