Moon

Light is not a natural place
for those who set their roots in darkness.

Some of us have lived in winter for so long,
Spring is the most torturous bloom.

The night swallowed us.
Still, we found the moon.

~TL Shreffler

Grove

I walk through the forest where
He is still waiting, there
In the deep woods, a statue overgrown
With moss. I can still kneel
And brush my fingers across
The clay cleverness
Of an aged face
Weathered by all seasons -- Love,
The sacred grove remains.

Lift

She was wolf girl in the lift,
Powerful and free.
Nothing but her will, her body,
The weight, lifting,

Stress on muscles, straining--
Teeth grit through the midst of it,
Freeing

All the pain, courageous, she
     always preferred to feel --
a freeing breath --
         -- release.

Wildflowers

I love poetry like wildflowers,
     no single standard.
Can you imagine living
     that anonymous life by the roadside?
What if that flower became a woman
     and one day walked to market
         in the heat of bustle and bees,
and saw all the human varieties,
     no single standard?


 -T. L. Shreffler

I don't know where the flowers run anymore,
I don't know where the brick path leads.
Once, I searched for bottles on a deserted shore--
I knew well where sky and ocean would meet--

But our certainty crumbles like sand over time,
We live as things are, not how they should be,
And all our right paths turn left in the end,
Or dead-end at a pondersome sea.

So I don't know anymore why the willows grow tall,
Why the skylark calls, why the sunset bleeds.
I really can't say what I want from this world,
But the world will always have me.

Quiet, Beautiful

June 1st, 2018

Quiet, beautiful

Back to the road where the tower waits

Back to the gray mountains

Back to the dead plains

Back to the mist where he kept you

Back to the throne where you slept

Back to the frost windows, the curtains drawn, the poison drank, the skin cold, the gums white,

the blood dried, the door cracked--

Go

She escaped for a time, she did

Go

but she couldn't

Go back

Who are we, but a voice
singular and powerful,
a letter written to the stars
 of a civilization wandering--
the lonely soul of a planet, drifting--