For this prompt I wrote a poem everyday for a school week, just as I would need to for homework!


Wind Whispers:

Spirit walking,
Soul talking,
Wind whispers
It's comfort.
I hear it's voice
I am called,
To journey again
Through mind.

Fingers brushing,
Breath touching,
You shiver
Mind knowing
It's not only wind.

Gently calling,
Spirit falling,
To drown in 
Unseeing eyes.

Peace awakens,
Past forsaken,
What are these threads 
That bind?

The Wind whispers
Listen close,
For I am at your side.


*******


Mother's Mistake:

Hurtful words, hung between
Metallic,
Regretful
Broken hearts and tears
Seasoned with shame and failure

Truth is in the mirror
Reflecting
Projecting
Visage of guilt
Salty, bittersweet and stale

Must breathe in clean again
Inhaling
Releasing
Sins of the mother
Choking on gall and remorse

Swallowing the darkness
Illuminate
Strengthen
Rejuvinate hope for
Whole unconditional love.


*************


Prejudice's Casualties:

Wizened countenance
Adores sweet Innocence. 

Marvels in artless pleasure,
Of child's hand given in trust. 

Sweet Innocence adores
Wisdom's aged and lined face.

Without biased view or stricture,
Confident in Wisdom's love.

Their hearts may be colorblind,
But society sees them as prey

Aged Wisdom steps aside
To keep danger to Innocence away


*******


Silent Screams:

Keep the silence,
hold your peace.
You know if your
Mouth opens,
It will spew
Forth nothingness
You're screaming
Without creating a noise.

Truth withers away

Crying tears of sand
Each grain rubbing
Vacuous eyes
Absorb little light.
Blinded by lies
And grandiose dreams.

Truth withers away

No, you prefer blinders.
Not wanting to view what's
CLear and present.
Shame, is preferring fantasy
To the reality.
While others die for
Your comforts.

Who will listen?
Who will dare?
To speak of the atrocities?
To speak of the dangers
And abuse of all flavor?
You scream and there isn't sound

Truth, just withers away.


*******


Spilling Ink:

Spilling the ink,
 for creating works
    of heartfelt emotions

It's not for money
 but love of word craft
    do we bleed our devotions

It boils our blood
  Until our very souls
    Give life to a word ocean

We birth each line
  With labored pen
    To express such lofty notions

Road of life is training
For the Writer's lot
To which we do aspire

Critiques that cut,
  Reject and bite.
    Plunge the heart into mire. 

Writers know they may
Never a fortune make
  nor riches will acquire
   
Still, that quill,
  Must paper etch,
    With words meant to inspire.
    

**All concrit welcome...