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I like this...very good wiccan!

It's still more shock than sorrow when I hear my shadow and find only my echo in return.

Wow, there's an even deeper meaning to that then I thought... thank you for explaining that to me, it's beautiful.

Happy to help, I really enjoy reading other people's poetry, thoughts, stories, and general writings . I can't write peotry at all, but I enjoy reading and analysing it, I hope to see more of your peotry.

Wiccan, I'm drawn to your poem and your name. It can be so scary when heartache doesn't just go away like it's supposed to. I'm afraid my poetry on heartbreak is limited, but I'll give you one about life and death, and one of the few heartbroken poems I've written and kept.



The Barge

Silence your children,
the fog will be cleared with the paddle.
When the barge docks at my door,
and the river offers me her saddle,

I'll tell my lady;
"I would've weighed my cargo,
If I'd bothered to think.
Now all I have is a game of bones,
that it's not enough to sink."

I've lived a life of many things,
all of them stuffed in my sack,
and for this trip beside the sun,
It's too late to get it off my back.

I wouldn't have it otherwise,
but I've been acting as my own scale,
and in the face of such a burden,
this soul can only pale.
All I have is my own direction,
to wrestle with the whale.

Her gaping maw is full of clouds,
her wake is felt by mountains.
And if there's a prize within her belly,
it's in pennies in her fountains.

I knew not what to bring,
and I'm lucky in what I chose;
All I have that isn't drenched,
is white and lofty rose.
Some bring their deeds,
and find themselves with soggy intentions,
rotting in their lap.

Some bring their beleifs,
and receive a gentle slap.

And with only this token,
she bore me on sloshing hooves,
to a place where the noise is broken;
off the map and over the edge,
I know not how long I'll fall,

but if I'm merely dropping at the end of a greater scale,
I don't care what I hit at all.

Middle of the Bridge

Don't leave me here!
Don't you wall me out,
you'd make me take another route?
All after you became so near!
...After you became so dear.

My heart is gunpowder,
so watch that match;
in the middle of the bridge,
and with nothing to catch!

My blood turns white at the thought!
In only an instant,
This bridge might show signs of rot.
The river below me could sweep me back,
down to the bottom,
and in no neat-little stack!

Middle of the bridge,
one side's the fire,
the other's the fridge!
Where is she?
Backward or forward,
does she want me?

Let me come-cross for a devilish toll,
if the bridge-keeper eats me,
I'll bring my own bowl.
Don't warn me back with your hurtfull call,
It's my blackest terror you'll send me back,
Yet I fear you not at all.

Kudos to the resident poetical geniuses of our guild!

I just b***h. Unless I'm whining. In which case I usually threaten, coerce or demand. Except when I manipulate, cajole or bribe. Then I am usually employing hypnotism.

But I don't write it down. Unless I need to.

I hope you all don't mind that I didn't write this but found it in a book I was reading over the weekend called 'perks of being a wallflower' by Stephen Chbosky. (a recommended read!!) I do have my own stuff, but I am still contemplating whether or not to post them in here yet. Anywho, enjoy.

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Fater Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.