Tag: peoplewithpoetry

Can boldness be regrown?

Dousing dreams in gasoline.

Can I have all the strength of attack

And all the safety of defence?

Or was the armistice

Only ever meant

To leave me disarmed.

Can one have faith

Without first having doubt?

Could I have roots with depth

Beyond my own

Grafted to this timid trunk

To make a steady

Yet brave hero?

Oh let it be true

That this and more

Will come to pass,

A day where the world rests

Squarely on my shoulders

And sits there comfortably

For I’ve been imbued

With your might.

– Vagabond Prophet

Happy Birthday

It’s my birthday today

Though every day is the anniversary

Of something

Today is the anniversary of me,

Of when ink first spilled

On empty pages of my life.

Old enough to know

Youth can’t be given

Only thinned

Like a ring resized

For ever widening fingers.

Young enough to know

Most of the book is yet unwritten,

Many trips around the sun

Not yet spun.

– Vagabond Prophet

Pandora’s Box

‘I am pandora’s box

Devil’s got the key

Opens as he pleases

To take control of me.’

This is the way I thought

Before my heart was bought

Taming every vein

Purifying acid rain.

What a miracle you’ve wrought

In blood spilled for prices paid

Your mercy magnified

By wrath that you have stayed.

The justice undiluted

For my behalf you have disputed

Saving me from hellish jaws

And circling vultures hungry caws.

– Vagabond Prophet

vagabondprophet:

Balsa Wood

If I could remake you

Out of balsa wood

Would I?

You’d be lighter

Yet strong,

Easily take flight.

The wind would push

Against your wings

And caress your face.

Ascension, descension,

Thrown by the carelessness

Of the air and the sky.

Letting every splinter

Alter your course,

Dancing on the map.

Would you even return,

Fight the current

To come back to me.

I see you in the flesh

And swear

You’re something better

Could I set you free?

Free of the land

And free of me.

Knots and imperfections

Same as now,

But you would fly.

You belong

High above me,

A distant speck.

I can’t make this choice

I’m selfish in my love,

What say You?

Wind filled wingspan?

Or me, simply me,

Pink tongue, white teeth.

I’ll be yours

To hold and kiss,

To wriggle against.

I know it’s a poor choice.

I’ve always ruffled

One too many feathers.

So which is it?

The clouds,

Cotton and dewy.

Or me, simply me

I’ll hold you close

And love you tenderly.

If you wish

I’ll remake you

Out of balsa wood

But know that if

The gale proves too much,

You may return to me

I’d make you safe again

Peeling back every ring

Of that lovely balsa wood.

– Vagabond Prophet

Under the Weather

Under the weather

Above the soil

Where else could I be?

Unable to soar above

Subject to the way the sky

Indecisively swings on hinges

Like alcoholic binges.

The staccato of a door

Urgently tapped upon

When hail falls on my roof

Reminding me of what I’m beneath.

It’s okay it won’t always be that way.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for prompting me with “under the weather.”

7 Years

Seven years ago we

Braided our lives together,

I’ve never felt taller

Than I did that day.

My shoes red

Your shoes yellow

Dancing they turned orange.

Orange like sunset

On the days of scorn from others,

Trying to bring clouds

To a sunny day.

Orange like sunrise

On the best chapter of my life.

– Vagabond Prophet

@delightfulharmonypoetry

Strangers

“Don’t talk to strangers”

My mother said to me

But the stranger inside

Whispers so elegantly.

Ignore it but can’t silence

Over time drowns out my mother

As she sounds stranger and stranger

And the voice within becomes familiar.

Thorn in my side

Coaxing out the best of me

With weaponized linguistics

Moving like a flood

Churning like blood.

Long twisted corridors

Forgetting the way back.

Learning courage is not concerned with results

But only the attitude of the heart

Amongst daunting threats

And that faith anchored properly

Allows for some doubt.

Now ignoring the whispers

That never quite abated

For the songbird with truths instead of lies

Belts out harmonies so joyous

So majestic and sonorous.

I think my mother meant something different,

Perhaps “Don’t let people stay strangers”

Know them, converse and learn

Whether to continue friendship

Or let them slip through my fingers

Like coins no longer currency.

Trading thorns for crowns

Painful business that is

With skin grown over affliction

Yet worth it, every time.

– Vagabond Prophet

Fruits of the Spirit #2


Peace as defined by the poets dictionary

Definition: A tranquility of the spirit that envelopes body, mind, and soul.

Slowing and making graceful your actions for the lack of emergency. The cool waters to calm the aching muscles of your weary heart. The world spinning on as it ever did but your own thoughts remain steady and don’t sway in every wind that blows by, untossed by the waves that ebb and flow. Anchored to steadiest of ground and content in a secure hope, casting aside worries, not because they’re not worrisome but because peace covers it and renders it unimportant.

Other definitions include: The draught that aims to tame the flame which burns your passion into poison.

Achievement and maintenance of amiable relations with your neighbours, forgetting the grass and the corresponding colours but learning about the people behind the fences and being okay with the differences.

Antonyms: Anxiety, restlessness, anger, wrath, violence.

Only peace endeavours to leave blood unspilled, instead doing its good work to bring air where before was only despair.

– Vagabond Prophet

@mildreflections thanks for coming along on this journey, can’t wait to see what you come up with next.

Sanguine


Hundreds of different bandages,

For hundreds of different wounds.

Some with silver, some with glue,

Some that cover most of you.

These ones in my hand

To contain maggots

While they eat

The dead flesh around a wound.

Insect like vultures

Subsisting off decay.

If blight should red or green or blue,

Antiseptic solutions for that too.

Every answer to every question

Understood by spinning blood

And squinting at urine.

What I’ve learnt from this place,

Sanguine in both definitions

Can be present in one body

That’s clinging to a bed

In a crowded hallway.

Medicine is a nice way of saying

A poison that we trust.

“This is going to hurt a little bit”

Means this will be torture.

That the suffering of those

That wail like feral beasts

Are beyond dignity

Looking only to survival.

“Decreasing quality of life” means that

This person isn’t worth many more dollars.

Mostly I’ve learned that hope

Is the ultimate trump card,

Hope covers all bad news,

Is a treatment for any diagnosis.

Peace can’t be prescribed

But can be spread by gentle hands

And kind words.

I only put gloves on a shelf,

Yet I now know the fingers

That will know them so well

Need my diligence

To impart some resilience.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for prompting me with “What I have learned from you.” Hope this is okay.