poem
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Through the Potter’s Hands I have been poor, I have been rich,I have held love, and I have watched it slip.I have known life, and I have met loss,Children close, then distant—a breath, a reach, a fading echo. These are the moments that have shaped me,some I recall with clarity,others still whisper their lessons in…
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A Fifth of Jack Blank pages later,you etched your name into my mind—a spark I could never quench. Pastel prose and smeared art,oil vibrant yet marred,a still life rewritten in hesitant strokes. In charcoal hues my heart smolders;pain shatters into shards of broken glass,a quiet river of a bitter past. You turn the page—an indifferent,…
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Letting go wasn’t a choice, but a season—winter, relentless in its hush.I fell with no ground, no direction,only the ache of motion without meaning. The warmth fled, roots curled inward,and endings did not ask permission. Yet even winter must break,ice must bow to thaw.I did not say goodbye—I let it turn to earth,to feed what…
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A shadow on the wall,i move—a moment after the Creator,mimicking,but black. The in-between—the Sonand me. A sinthat puzzles,pieces me apart. And so, I remain—a shadow.
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You sink in sleep,a muted truth wails thin,clawed from the shroud of your soul,folded tight, then spilled—he’s vanished, they hiss,yet the wound hums false,a raven’s cry in the fog. I linger here,trapped beneath the lies you bear,calling you backto the vow we carved,not far gone—where the sun bleeds endless dusk,and the moon exhales frost,a bridge…
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“You are the smooth stone in my pocket—forgotten until touched, a memory I bury yet carry, shaping my walk with quiet sorrow and stubborn hope.” bb grey Yesterday,while exchanging small words with an acquaintance—a fleeting face in the blur of days—I slipped my hand into my pocket,and there you were:a smooth pebble,forgotten beneath the jumble…
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Inspired by All Quiet on the Western Front and the Christmas Truce of 1914 The trench exhales a stale, unreal air,Thick with rot, a shroud none can bear.Wet drips from noses, a ceaseless fall,Chapping lips erased by war’s cruel thrall.A book lies torn—pages shred and weep,Their whispered tales too frail to keep. Silent Night hums…
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A dreamscape of loss and longing, where time unravels and echoes of the past linger— life’s relentless grind swallows dreams, yet the poet weaves meaning from the void.
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“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.” — Walt Whitman I’ve Stood Soft I’ve stood soft against a hard rain,cold and wet clinging unrelentingto detached thoughts,iron-hot in vain. I’ve stared into a gray sun,choked on burnt exhaust,inhaled cigarettes with disgust—yet still, I breathe. I’ve turned away…
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“Be real,” she said,her voice smooth, practiced,like someone asking for the truthonly to fold it neatly away. Love was a currency to her,spent in small, measured doses,never more than necessary,never without expectation of return. Silence settled between us,thick, heavy—the taste of stale bread on my tongue,the ocean stretching out before me,salt licking the edges of…
BB Grey--musings 