It Was 11:30 PM

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It was 11:30 PM when he made his last cup of coffee, stirring in the creamer while the rain pelted his kitchen window.

It was the wind that sent sheets of rain, lashing out in waves again and again. He was glad to be home.

It wasn’t much of an apartment but it was peaceful. Dimly lit, he kept only 2 lights on, like his father had taught him.

Should he read the paper? He headed for his chair. He realized nobody really read the paper anymore, did they? He decided instead to get out his travel book – the one on Ireland.

Someday he wouldn’t be working 18 hour shifts at the hospital anymore.

It was 12:10 AM when he fell asleep in his chair, the book still open on his lap, as he dreamed of a cottage by the sea. 

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies

In Our Most Sacred Dreams

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In our most sacred dreams

of our victories won

of overwhelming light

we can seldom ascend

by washing ourselves

in rivers of peace,

or through bathing

in a spirit of serenity.

No. More often our scars cry out for revenge

or we find a rare jewel

a priceless emerald

buried deep within

our darkest ruins.

Waiting

to be lifted

into our hope.

Did you know you are the courage

we’ve been looking for?

 

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies, jewelry by unknown artist

Fig Leaves Brushed My Cheek

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Fig leaves brushed my cheek as I made my way

to the river,

having seen the invitation,

I found a oneness

in the sun.

A poem was clearly calling

my name, so I pursued

the words into a meadow –

capturing them, with my pen.

There wasn’t a fight really,

only a surrender.

      

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies