She counts her shells

her feet sand ribbed
her toes ricely white
her hair windy vagabond
her eyes low tide sea.

She gives me back my years.

Through tears
I count eternity.

hiding in the siren silence
within sight of invites of violence
in the sky the plight of tyrants
righteous mighty fighter pilots

biased bombs in flights of guidance
goliath might, the fire of giants
without a fight or try of defiance
set alight in frying alliance

in the final piles of subsidence
the dying cries of compliance
the price they paid is the highest
the siren silence finally quiets

Writing is not unlike fishing.

You take up the instrument
of your art, cut a raw chunk
of your heart for bait, cast
as far into your imagination
as possible and wait for
something likely to strike.

Then you reel it in, slowly
and with craft. With luck
you have caught a poem. But
quite often, just when you
think you've got it, it simply
slips away, leaving you alone,
frustrated and bewildered,
but still hoping it might be
only another cast away.

Poetry is ephemeral;
difficult to catch
when sought. Hard
to hold onto and
easily lost when caught.
All you can do is
keep the poem in play
and hope to land it
another day.

  ~mce

Smoke left to curl against the sky
Toes crinkled under shoes
Funnelled out and contemplating
All he had to lose

She had left and flown as whispers leave
The lips of those who hush
An atlas crushed unto her *******
No guilt of burning trust

Bitter had she left him
Like the dregs from PG-Tips
And, burned into his memory,
Her swaying, leaving hips

His anchor was stripped away
He was flotsam in a sea
He shuffled out and left the edge
"Nothing now, for me."

Don't worry, little friend.
Don't be so concerned.
Even flames bend
To see you unburned.

The clouds that cover
The blistering suns
Are the skies watching over
Our treasured ones.

So just go outside and
Dance in the rain.
You don't need to hide,
There's no danger or pain

That threatens you, child.
You are never alone.
You are safe in the wild;
Mother Nature is home.