descriptive

Sunday Evening in June, London, 2017

Sunday Evening in June, London, 2017

By JFarrell

 

The cats wearily open an eye as I walk by,

Too tired, too hot,

To see if I come armed with a bag of sweets;

The chirps and tweets of birds;

Sparrows, tits, pigeons, gulls,

As they nestle in for the night.

The sky is a light blue-gray,

And the deep violet clouds are edged with an orange hue.

Just a single plane in the vastness of the sky.

The light breeze is very pleasant

Getting under my shirt and up my sleeves

A very welcome coolness.

 

Peaceful.

I wish it could stay like this forever;

In peace;

But, with the morrow

Will come the aftermath of last week’s tragedy,

Hopefully lessened in tension and anger, if not grief;

And who can foretell what else

Tomorrow or the days after may bring.

 

Though I know it can’t last forever

I still wish peace for London and the World

In the hope that one day it might.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

dreams

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Peace

Folder: 
Stories

The wind blew his long brown hair across his face, his lids half open to reveal those endless blue eyes. Staring into the distance, he had a look on his face; not happy, but serene. Ironic that one of the most troubled souls could look so peaceful. He turned to me and looked me in the eye. His gaze pierced right into my soul, yet it wasn't unsettling. Those eyes looked so old, like they'd seen more than they should've. He smiled, ever so slightly, and I looked away.

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Giving Air

The corner of the room is bound by a drawstring
that's dotted with flies all alight in glass coffins.
I'd plan it as a way to set a mood,
but have yet to use it for more than writer's atmosphere.

My bed beneath and engulfed by jointed walls
is often spread about in the nude, shaken with dust,
and willing to have me in it whether washed or unwashed.

I'm thankful for the closet, which houses no bodies,
and is the only clear access to the mind of our structure.
I use it by my whimsy and tend to toss it scraps
of previous adornments which might yet be hung.

There is excess of oxygen and no one with to share it.
There was at once a warmer touch that used to breathe it too,
but after such long nights spent confined to self,
I know it's only mine.

As I forge my gradual way, I cannot help my eye,
which does not listen and only sees those who scurry by.
Seeking her, despite myself, despite all the advice:
seeking newest, loving lips to offer all my air.

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The Silent Man

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2001

He sits all alone

Aloof and quiet in a corner

Without light

Without any speech

 

His eyes are dark

So very deep

He has seen so much

But told none

 

His body is lean

Full of hard worked muscle

From true hard labor

Very well deserved

 

His hands are rough

From his hard labors

Very wide and tough

Yet gentle as a child

 

He sits quietly

Sees all, says nothing

He hears every word

But never moves

 

~Chrystal

Written on

March 16, 2001 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I don't really know why I wrote this one. Just something in my head.

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