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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

The Foretelling - 1. Chapter 1 The Foretelling and Among the Ruins

My poetry is an outlet for so many things. It is about the past, the future, and the status quo. Some I keep private, but there is often a welcomed release that comes with sharing.

The Foretelling

 

Softened snow streams,

like a determined runner’s sweat,

off the heated metal roof

caressed

by the recently reticent sun,

finally allowed to flex its power

 

It bursts a fiery orange

behind closed eyelids,

delicious D-laden rays

warming the thirsty skin

taut on my upturned face,

hastening the pulse of my blood

 

Gentle clay chimes wake and play,

tinkling notes next to my ear,

and that same breathy breeze

stirs un-hatted silvered hair

as I listen with fresh vigor

to the cadence of the lively drips

 

And for one glorious moment in time,

tantalizing that which waits deep within

A hopeful harbinger

wheedling into soul’s white slumber

with insistent sounds

and earth-sprung scents

 

Foretelling that Spring

has begun its design,

that unfettered life will emerge

and become riotous,

as awakening bees,

like us, welcome new industry

 

 

Among the Ruins

 

I cherish yon windmill on the hill

Resolute in its creaking spin

Once again able to move forward

As long as wind gives a purposeful push

 

What freed once-silenced blades

long locked against the elements?

Did Mother Nature bestow motion with a burst

so she could hear the music of her breeze?

 

It matters naught it wears an aura of ruin,

its patinaed tower slight canted,

one blade missing and another askew,

yet stubbornly proclaiming endurance

 

I can see my like upon that hill,

and can discern my flaws as easily

as those of that forlorn relic

once giving comfort to lives long gone—

 

Bringing water from the depths

of a stone lined well

barely concealed by rotted planks,

nature-woven weeds, and rusted bolts

 

But there the similarity differs,

for I did refuse to draw from the depths

of my own constructed well, serving as prison

for once-good memories tainted with pain

 

The bad ones, those served me better,

holding me firm against vicious battering,

because I was staunch in my belief

it was the right choice for me

 

Yet my stilled blades continue their protest

For old anger, paused at times like a frozen winter,

isn’t nourishment,

nor does it allow for peace amid any storms

 

Yes, exposure to the elements

can bring an unsettling, perceived danger,

but my prison walls are failing

because I am tired, and I yearn….

 

And confusing thoughts of you creep in anyway,

like the first time your hand covered mine

on the drive to the campground

You were driving, and my smile matched yours

 

And then later, heady months in,

those three, oft repeated words

mouthed silently by you,

easing my concerns across a music-filled loft

 

“Do you believe in life after love?” echoed,

and you collected and led me

to the thick-planked barn floor

You hated dancing, but you did it for me… for us

 

“Do you believe in life after love?”

Dear god, how that song defines me!

How fucking ironic it was to become,

to a man broken

 

And this, this! ... is how it goes for me

Spring turns to winter and back again

in a mere blink as those memories churn

in that soup of rancid sorrow

 

So much promise

became something wretched

and demeaning… alas… betrayal

yet still… I remember the Art Gallery

 

And how you had me pose amongst treasures

You told me I was as beautiful—imagine that—

and I believed your words—imagine that!

I always believed you

 

Until I couldn’t any longer

Because you took away that possibility

and gave me no choice but to retreat,

barely withstanding the gale of your onslaught

 

While chewing on unfathomable remorse,

I lost myself in a cold world of white

A years-long ‘winter of my discontent’,

alone in a place of rage and pain

 

Oh, my face played brave, and I functioned,

bent blades and all, mechanisms intact enough to spin,

but those good times had become the enemy,

refuse tossed in the deep to die

 

Yet, weariness wears as years have bent,

and you can’t abrade my heart anymore,

so I expect those memories can’t either

… if I dare return them to the fold

 

Like the structure on the hill,

there must be enough balance

for a thing to run unencumbered

I’m canted too, but I wish my blades to whir

 

While there is still time

I must be all I am

Allow the light, and even some fondness in,

and recall without rancor

 

The loving feel of your hands

and the murmuring of two hearts—

Yes—destined for breaking—

at least one of them—

 

But they did beat together for a time,

and I was happy

I shouldn’t keep that buried, right?

For isn’t love, no matter its death, the point?

 

Yes, mon Cher, there is life after love,

But it’s best we don’t kill what came before

Tendrils of a bitter past

need not choke the breath from us when faced

 

I can’t… won’t forget the betrayals

or the torture of the aftermath,

but power generates in this old man yet,

enough to forgive myself my follies…

…and reclaim that which has always been mine

 

Maybe, if you attempt contact again, I will answer….

this time

Thanks for taking the time to read these humble offerings. Poetry can leave me feeling vulnerable, but I guess that is not such a bad thing. Cheers!
Copyright © 2024 Headstall; All Rights Reserved.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

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Two very different, yet both moving poems.  The first about nature and  its effects on not only the flora and fauna, but on you personally.  When I began reading the second poem, I believed you were starting to describe the ruins of a farm, since you talked about the windmill and the stone well, but then you moved on to the ruins of a relationship and love affair.  I thought both were nicely done and you portrayed vivid images of both.  Thank you for sharing, Gary. 

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On 4/4/2024 at 1:10 AM, FanLit said:

In “The Foretelling” your descriptive power with words reigned supreme;  you beautifully and vividly conveyed how this moment made you aware of the inexorable change of one season to the next (as well as how you look forward to it 😊).

That pleasured anticipation was such a contrast to “Among the Ruins”, where the tumult of love found, lost and remembered in all its facets cycled me to where you stand, yon beautiful, sturdy windmill, battered and broken in places but still a purposeful source of strength.  

Thank you, Gary for sharing your pleasure, your joy, pain, rage, forgiveness and resilience….there is strength in vulnerability, the eloquence of your emotional underbelly resonates as it inspires admiration.

I find it almost effortless to write about nature, and I'd like to think it is because I am in tune with it. "The Foretelling" contains that joy I feel when I step out onto the veranda and feel those signs of spring. I hope I never lose my amazement at the natural world and it's constant changes. Happy to hear you liked this poem.

"Among the Ruins" is definitely a contrast, and your words show your understanding of me. It's not like I spend hours contemplating my life, but I do at times get lost in memories. It's occurred to me the ones I push away are just as important as the ones I welcome. What we carry affects so much more than we might imagine... in essence we can fool ourself. I can honestly say writing this poem allowed me a change of heart I believe was needed, not to say it is THE answer... but it gives me a different and helpful perspective.

As far as the windmill, it exists as I describe. I often wonder how many cows used it as a scratching post over the decades. The old homestead is gone, and I can't see the mill in summer because of tree cover, but it stands clear once the leaves drop in fall. I've trekked up to it a couple of times once the cows have been moved, but of course it is on private property.   Thank you, my friend, for taking time to read and comment. The best thing about writing poetry is what it does for me personally, but second best is having someone relate in some small way. My oh my, I'm a garrulous man today. :hug: 

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On 4/4/2024 at 7:08 AM, RicciRiccardo said:

There’s a reunion love story hinted at the end, let’s hear it!

No, there will never be such a thing, but there may be honest conversation and appreciation for our past, one on one... something I never envisioned happening. There was a friendship achieved for a time, but that lasted until I witnessed betrayal to someone else, along with uncomfortable overtures. Thanks for reading and commenting, Ricci. Much appreciated. Cheers! 

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On 4/4/2024 at 9:44 AM, Mikiesboy said:

Two very different and personal poems about nature's seasonal changes and your own.  I am much drawn to Among The Ruins, where you share feelings and thoughts about love, pain, and loss. Both poems are touching and beautiful.

Yes, they are very different, but they do have a connection in that renewal comes in many forms. Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts, tim. Cheers!

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On 4/4/2024 at 12:18 PM, kbois said:

Both pieces are well done. 

I could clearly picture the advent of a new season in The Foretelling. 

Among the Ruins was poignant. A beautiful portrayal of love found and lost. 

Thanks!

Thanks, kbois! "The Foretelling" is about that anticipated moment many of us wait for after a long winter, when we are on the cusp of a new renewal. "Among the Ruins" goes in another direction, but is still about the possibilities of change. A different renewal. I appreciate you reading and sharing your thoughts. Cheers! 

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22 hours ago, Doha said:

Two moving poems. Moving in different although related ways. To be loved and to love- a gift from the heavens. And, despite the losing of it, love remains a lingering longing.

Exactly. Memories are often all that remains, and depriving ourselves of some of them because they hurt is not in our own interest. I'd like to think of them without angst, and while it might prove difficult, I believe it will be worth it. Love is a gift, even if it dies a horrible death. Thanks, Doha! Much appreciated. Just to note, I have two more entries to come in this Poetry Anthology. Cheers! :hug:  

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21 hours ago, Parker Owens said:

I was especially drawn to Among the Ruins. You play different sorts of ruin off each other really well, relating each to the other. Perhaps your point is well taken: that ruins don’t have to remain ruins. 

Yes, Parker. Many ruins can be rebuilt, at least enough to be recognizable for what they once were. Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. Cheers!

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18 hours ago, centexhairysub said:

While sad, this gave me hope as well; that we can move on from our past to a future that we know not what it holds.  

I did wish for hope to be felt, my friend. Love can be fleeting, but so can sadness. Closing up serves great purpose in protecting us, but holding onto bitterness does not... not in the long run. Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. Cheers!

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14 hours ago, Bill W said:

Two very different, yet both moving poems.  The first about nature and  its effects on not only the flora and fauna, but on you personally.  When I began reading the second poem, I believed you were starting to describe the ruins of a farm, since you talked about the windmill and the stone well, but then you moved on to the ruins of a relationship and love affair.  I thought both were nicely done and you portrayed vivid images of both.  Thank you for sharing, Gary. 

Hey, Bill! Thank you so much for your support of my meager offerings. The second poem followed on the heels of writing the first, so I really felt their connection, and I'm pleased others did too. I think the first allowed me to go there... to write something quite personal. 

There are farms all over that are in ruins, yet still fertile, and I don't think it is so different for a life lived, at least for some. We might look different as we age, but are we really all that different from our youth? I'd like to think things can still grow in my soil. :)  Cheers!

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I read this days before, but I needed time to comment.  As often with your poems, I didn't know what to choose 'sad' or 'love'. I decide :hug: is never wrong.

Both poems grabbed my heart.

Spring lets the ice melt and invigorates us. I would never want to live in a place without seasons.

The windmill metaphor was hard to endure.

I shouldn’t keep that buried, right?

No, you shouldn't—a decision of a wise man.

~Adi

 

  • Love 2
8 hours ago, Aditus said:

I read this days before, but I needed time to comment.  As often with your poems, I didn't know what to choose 'sad' or 'love'. I decide :hug: is never wrong.

Both poems grabbed my heart.

Spring lets the ice melt and invigorates us. I would never want to live in a place without seasons.

The windmill metaphor was hard to endure.

I shouldn’t keep that buried, right?

No, you shouldn't—a decision of a wise man.

~Adi

 

I spend a lot of time alone, and probably do too much thinking. :unsure2:   Memories come out of the blue, especially in the dark months, and then spring is the time of reflection and change for me. I'm pleased these two grabbed your heart, Adi. I know how "Among the Ruins" makes me feel, but I didn't expect it would translate as well as it appears to have done. That windmill on the hill feels like a friend. :)  

I would never want to live without seasons either, Adi. Thanks for the support and the kind words. I hope life is treating you well, my friend. Cheers! :hug:  

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Life got in the way of reading the poetry anthologies, I'm so glad I finally read these!  The Foretelling was another great example of your wonderful ability to connect me to your natural world.  I could smell the soil, hear the clay chimes, feel the strengthening sun. 

Among the Ruins made me cry, not for your pain (though that makes me sad), but for your brave choice to let some of the hurt go.  I understand how much easier it is to remember the bad times than the good when you have been betrayed.  All that love, hurt, and anger mingled together are too powerful to let out in the open air too soon. 

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