NaPoWriMo Day 8

Green, Victor

The tide was not completely in,
There had been no splashes on the sea wall,
All along the west of the beach.
And yet I heard the moon call.
I saw her enticing light,
But it was not my time.
Still, I lie buried beneath spades of dirt.
And for what crime?
I am fuelled with anger,
I, like the tide, never finished my round.
Now I have no power over you,
I’m just decaying in the ground.
I hope my love will not move on,
There’s no better man than me.
I knew what was best for you,
Tell my story right, I plea.
I never hurt you, never once.
I only taught you right.
Your wrongs were corrected,
Each time we had a little fight.
I can’t bear to watch over you,
When I have no control.
Instead I’ll walk across the sand,
As the untimely waves roll.

A continuation of Vic’s Haunt, a previous poem of mine!

In response to the eighth “Return to Spoon River” prompt from NaPoWriMo.net

Inspired by the poems featured in Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology.

Your Hinterland

When I think of you, I find myself looking towards the sky. I wonder if you are looking down at me.  Watching from above, with a pair of angelic wings. I believe that you are seeing heights only one stairway has ever led to.
I would prefer it if you were closer though. Thriving in flourishing meadows, behind the hills. I dream of watching you dance, as the playful breeze rattles the leaves of the oak trees. Just beyond the view from my window; your own hinterland.

Image credit: pixabay.com

In response to Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt found here

Silent Rain

Listening to the sound of rain
Creates serenity.
Busy minds tune into the lull.
A provoked tranquility:
Calm enough to ease,
Loud enough to dispel
Unwelcome thoughts,
Wish them farewell.
A raindrop is silent,
Until it splashes.
Like his internal plight,
Before he turns to ashes.

Image credit: Pixabay.com

In response to dVerse’s Rain Poetry Prompt found here

Vic’s Haunt

Before I read the grave’s etching,
The whispering winds blow colder.
My arms are heavy with tension,
Your hand of lead pressed on my shoulder.

I said my final good riddance,
Thinking you were gone.
Why won’t you tire of haunting me?
Vic, I plead with you, move on.

Your enflamed, bloodshot eyes
Effortlessly graze my soul.
Even from beyond the grave,
You still demand control.

Your body may pass through me,
But you still take a violent swing.
The illusion still has impact;
No trace of hope for the living.

In response to dVerse’s resurrection challenge found here