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October 24, 2012 / eamonoc

Change Slips In

Autumnal change, unfixed, a slow, slumbering

breeze, soundless as a drying leaf wafting

from the past, like shifting sands, an ebbing tide,

shadows of a time gone by.

 

You have brought new colours to my table,

energies abound, their vibrant caress support

for darker days. I lie on a cusp, arms open to

the richness of expectation, heart alive,

high above a dancing landscape, abstract,

flowing, waiting, like an actor in the wings,

confident, yet uncertain.

 

Whisper, sweet change, reveal your secrets

with ochre dulcet tones. Wash me clean of

yesterday and carry me through a swift

today to the ‘what if’ of tomorrow.

Imbue me with the hues of autumn’s canvas

so I can settle, unafraid, ready to meet

whatever comes my way.

 

Sun shines, rain falls, wind blows;

night comes with the promise of light.

Change slips in, as it should,

like a friend bearing gifts.

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October 16, 2012 / eamonoc

Autumn Serenity at Hazelwood, Sligo

Autumn Serenity at Hazelwood, Sligo

October 12, 2012 / eamonoc

Morning mist – Sligo

Image

October 11, 2012 / eamonoc

Here’s a link …

Here’s a link to one of my crit-buddy’s websites. Carol Ervin has recently released her first novel, The Girl on the Mountain, which I had the pleasure of critting. I have no problem recommending it to anyone interested in a fantastic read. http://carolervin.com/?blogsub=confirming#subscribe-blog

June 21, 2012 / eamonoc

The Longest Day

The Longest Day

the longest of days
mirrored on the lake surface
solstice in my heart

June 8, 2011 / eamonoc

There is always light after the storm

June 8, 2011 / eamonoc

Turn by turn

Turn by turn

 

I watch the windmill of my life

turn slowly in the breeze of

present day.

 

Each arm, a creaking phase of time,

of light and dark, of pain,

or half remembered joy.

 

The eerie groan of grinding cog within,

a mirror of the scars that mar the

darkest side of past, of what was, and, maybe,

what could have been.

 

I sit and watch, and count your tears,

like dust across a butcher’s floor,

soaking up the blood and sweat

of who we thought we were.

 

We sang the songs of who we are,

and planned for what might come,

blind to the storm beyond our

field of dreams.

 

Our footprints, once clear in sands of time,

of passion baked like clay,

now soiled, and smudged,

betrayed, the pathway lost to fear.

 

My windmill turns,

each arm a mournful verse,

each space between, the chorus

of a broken heart.

 

The ailing cogs within keep turning,

grinding, pushing through, in hope that life, sweet life,

lined with the light of joy, will turn the corner of despair,

regret, and all that is unknown and feared,

and find the courage to forgive and carry forth.

 

The windmill of my life continues on,

phase by phase, turn by turn,

and I must sit, and watch, and learn.