THE HOUSE

 

 

The house sits alone.

Shutters hang broken.

Furniture upended.

Shattered pictures.

Shattered dreams.

Open the door.

Climb the battered staircase.

A house ravaged by a storm.

A savage storm that hit only this house.

I hear a creak on the stairs.

A sigh from within the walls.

A cry from the basement.

They’re back.

THE DEAD GAME

THE FALLEN

Sherbrooke Forest | By Penny Whetton

 

 THE FALLEN

 

Tree branches bend,

scarred by age.

Beaten by the storm,

many hit the ground

amid piles of leaves.

Without a proper burial,

no one mourns their loss.

The fallen won’t be forgotten

as replacements take root

in the shade of the tall trees.

Sunshine filters through the forest,

lighting the way for the future.

A DEMENTED DANCE

FORCE OF NATURE

Golden Hour by willyam http://ift.tt/2aItg9O

 

 

The waves stand

Straight as sentries,

Shoulder to shoulder.

They eye the shoreline,

Storm at their backs,

Wind at their sides.

The Sun sets above.

The sea ripples below.

The sky darkens.

Clouds rush in.

Birds flee the scene.

The sky opens.

Water rains from above.

Quiet reigns supreme.

They quicken their tempo.

They hit the sand with force,

Lines of soldiers,

Shoulder to shoulder

As one.

BURNT ORANGE

Photo: Whelan Works

 

 

The sky burns orange.

Winds whip in a frenzy.

Waves rush in.

Birds flee the scene.

Palm trees bow their heads.

The sun retreats.

Say a prayer for us.

 

THE DEAD GAME

Kindle

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Nook

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A STORM IS COMING

paradise night

 

A storm is coming,
Hitting the shore.
Palm trees flying
And so much more.

Anger raises the waves.
Passion kicks up the sand.
Fear hides behind clouds.
Marching in like a band.

I know he is here.
I hide from his face.
He’s coming for me.
Clouds pick up the pace.

His anger brings passion and fear.
Too bad he can’t fly like a dove.
His can easily move mountains.
For me, he moves the sky above.

THE DEAD GAME
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THE PERFECT MELODY

THE PERFECT MELODY The air is heavy. Clouds roll in. The sky grows dark. You hear the first drops. The water pounds on the roof. A staccato melody of its own. Pound, pound, pound. Tap, tap, tap. Rain washes our streets. Clears our minds. A new day...

 

THE PERFECT MELODY

The air is heavy.
Clouds roll in.
The sky grows dark.
You hear the first drops.
The water pounds on the roof
in a staccato melody of its own.
Pound, pound, pound.
Tap, tap, tap.
Rain washes our streets.
Clears our minds.
A new day arrives.