Bev Flynn's Blog, page 10

Words Fool Love

A poet's tease.. as shelterthey reachto opened heartas might shrinks down the distance - their words fool love.. that farto touch below your surfaceof everything you are

Choice

QuestioningA cнoιce once spokeIt's truth wentUnexpressedIt's said, it's chance wasDistantBut really itWas awfully close.. to near.If only weCould cross backTime through colors of ourSleepTrans sensory perceptionSeems we're only aGuest, of our dreams

Whispers, Through the Lens

The birth of words that glistenin the hands of love, and lorewhere a poet, wedges sunbetween the novelty.. and page. The key to their dimensionleaves you tethered.. to a shutterwhich whispers, through the lens before the fade

Magnolia Dust

Petals of the smitten word, in blushhide poetries so molten soft, like flamesinside a portal openslike red-stars, lit.. in floral phrase.Upon our page of palest couragetraced.. upon magnolia dustreminds us, why we started here and what our line's.. become

The Lore, Went Out with the Flames

I've played the foolin a poet's darkin misbelieving their tragic phrasesof light.. beneath their pagesa shadowhunter onceI didn't know.. that a ghost arouses timeas the pulse of the words, grows quietfor me, the lore went outwith the flamesfading-out of an unused name

The Hum of Fog

We're not a conscious happeningthis ghostly tale of tragicour words.. can not evolve us beyond the centuries.I will us.. to collideon rays of interventionwhere the hum of fog, beginsas the poem.. softly spins

The Bonfire Simmers On

We write our lives, with embersas the words defy nostalgiawe look for love's reflectionas the bonfire.. simmers on.Describing how that flame is felt.. is futileas we stand against it's currentwith precision.. and recall

Spillout

She's feeling.. very fragileas the barefoot season lengthenson the edge of words, unspokenthere's no degree of stopping.As spillout, from a nick in cloudsfills halfway up the bladeher footsteps, cut no shadowas she fades.. into the glade#PoetryMonth

This Spring.. my grief is yellow

Those trails of grid and hedgewe'd roam, within our season freed beneath the colors in the air.All I'm seeing now,are the colors of the other echoes..ones that won't becomethe ones, still to be made.This Spring.. my grief is yellow.Here's to all our memories, in the maze

Borgata

Playtime in A.C.