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< terug
Wind chimes
jingling in the breeze
caressing the stone
surface rough
work fingers to the bone
dust in eyes
no, I'm not crying
creative sadness
internally dying
fly, fly still hearts
winged birds of reverie
keep the message
alive in another reality
the sparks went out
hours of grief, hide
behind the wall of sorrows
where my babies reside
wind chimes
of memories
catch whispers
of their untold stories…
feedback van andere lezers- marrik
To much wind and to many untold stories
Will we ever tell...
M
killea: perhaps not, but some must be told
xxx
j - Dora
Misschien is het nu eindelijk de tijd om
naast de windgong een dromenvanger op te hangen
die je mooiste goeddoorleefde verhalen op te vangen
killea: many thanks Dora
xx
j - silvia
I love the sound of this poem, and the language U use Killea !
killea: thank you for reading and fine FB Silvia
xx
j - kerima_ellouise
mooooooi deze creative sadness!!!
killea: many thanks Kerima ellouise
xx
j - tessy
Dit is prachtig J. je bent een heel groot talent
killea: you honour me Tessy, coming from you it is truly a grand compliment.
xxx
j - Magdalena
Amaaaaai, dit is zo mooi!
(heb breed geglimlacht bij 'creative sadness, internally dying:
je kunt dat op 2 manieren interpreteren:
dat je creatief verdriet aan het sterven is - door liefde of zo
of, dat het zeer voelbaar aanwezig is)
Love you Killea
XXXX
killea: lovely to hear from you albeit in FB, many thanks for such a fine one, big hugs
xxx
j - manono
As if you 'handle' a stone' and in doing so memories come to the surface. I'm wondering what the stone looks like when de 'handling process' is finished.
killea: the stone is black with a figure on both sides, rivulets of a waterfall flow down on all sides, not quite finished yet, it will be called Ghost. Thank you for your FB
xx
j
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