Poetry and Poetic Prose
Poems and poetically written prose.
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The truth had long been concealed, Whispered a voice beyond the veil; In a grave manner she revealed, What had caused her heart to fail. She whispered of her sorrow, She’d been forced to confess a lie; Time no longer could she borrow, She had been condemned to die. Barefoot to the gallows she went,
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There are pieces that I have written that seem to write themselves. There are pieces that even several years later, I remember where I was and how I felt when I wrote them. There are pieces that the narration and music for the audio recording hit the emotional mark of the piece perfectly. Endlessness is
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While this poem is listed in the forgotten files category, it was never truly forgotten. I wrote it nearly 20 years ago. It was inspired by the large Hickory tree that stands at the end of my driveway. My husband and I named it The Whispering Tree. It is a beautiful old tree, full of
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I write from my experience and understanding, offering my perspective, as we all have a unique way of seeing things. I encourage the reader to question, seek, and research. You may see things differently. The truth is cloaked in a web of deceit in which those who seek it are often caught. It can send
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Whisper white and empty,A blank page,A still pen; Aching pain and plenty,A string of words,A lion’s den. Write well and perhaps,A good read,A time when; Fall back and relapse,An empty basket,A barren hen. From my book: A Dark Quill
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Wind chimes danced and sang in the warm breeze as heartstrings broke. The sunlight slipped into the shadowed corners exposing the ghosts. They ran into the shade of the trees whose leaves whispered ancient secrets. The inviting body of water just off the back deck soothed all the pains of the day as it faded away,
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We die as we are born,Alone—Thrust into the unknownAnd a light that isBlinding. In this world onceKnown—Prisons of flesh and bone,Full of memories that keepLingering. From my book: Hushing the Voices
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Purple and pink flowersAdorned my dressIn a garment that wasn’t for day. I had awoken to silenceAnd endless heartacheIn a house that wasn’t my home. Each task I performed automatically,Like a program with a mortal soul. I had died, yet I remained,Like a ghost covered in flesh. From my book: Hushing the Voices
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I’m surrounded by the dead, Their memories in my head, Their photographs by my bed,I ponder what lies ahead. Their thoughts through me seep,Their pains ache and weep,Their agonies cut quite deep,My words through them seep. My writings are their choice,The whispers are their voice,In remembrance they rejoice,Their memories are my choice. I must pen
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I wished it hereAnd I watch it fly,From the northern cornerOf the eastern sky. The weary travelerI had come to be,Many lonely milesNow far behind me. I had touched the sky,A glistening golden hue;My soul was remindedOf all it once knew. Yet in time it fadedAnd it flew once more,From the southern cornerOf the western
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Don’t think for yourself,You’ll get confused or lost;We’ve got all your answers,And they’ve all been glossed. Only we speak the truth,And there is much to fear;Yet with us you’ll have hope,To our rules you must adhere. This way to the promise,Our unquestioning sheep;But should you speak out,Guilt upon you we’ll heap. For we know too
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Eternal ache In a forgotten soul,Eternity pennedOn a fragile scroll;The scalesHave much to weigh. Perpetual existenceIn a forgotten way,Fate fallenOn a stony brae;Emptiness increasesThe weight of us. From my book: A Dark Quill
SB LACROIX 