Posts Tagged ‘ Hiding ’

Dawn Breaks – Poem

Dawn breaks and people rise,
Wiping sleep from their eyes,
Opening curtains, they gaze,
Outward from their world,
Revealing more and more,
As the opposites collide,
There is a whole world,
And more underneath,
Hiding from the harsh,
Truth of autumn days,
Receding just bit by,
Overly small bit,
Slowly, slowly,
Peeling back,
Rolling over,
And away,
To reveal,


© November 2011



For Those – Poem

For all of those lost,
For those yet to be found,
Just think of the cost,
Not the value of the pound.
Think of the others, mid-search,
As you want for nought else,
Easily able to leave them in the lurch,
As all but an icy heart melts.
Struggling to smile for the day,
When so much is lacking,
Unable to stop the tears falling away,
And the internal clock clacking.
There’s still one door left of advent,
Less than an hour before the deadline,
Time for more lies to invent,
To convince all the others that I am just fine.
For those that once shared,
Sat beside me on the morning,
And did nothing but care.
For those that one day may,
Celebrate without mourning,
To bring a smile. One day.

© Persephone M 24th December 2011

The Void Inbetween – Poem

The void
The haze
The in-between
Is it purgatory?
Is it the precipice?
Is it just simply numb?
Bubbling away,
Churning around,
Deafening all.
Thick and clingy
Misty and murky
Silent and eerie.
Step by step
Foot in front of foot
Motions succumbing.
In some hesitant
Not quite there
Not quite here place.
Fear builds
Hope dies
Pain erupts.
Tears fall
Dripping away
Running free.
Smudging down
Smearing around
Reds and Blacks.
It’s fifty-fifty
At the wheel
Yes or no?
Numb fingers

© 16th January 2012

Favourite Book – Poem

Now go and pick up your favourite book,
What does the cover look like to your naked eye?
Is it brown worn leather, full of lines to show its age,
Soft and squidgy under the tan, almost cushioned for a fall?
Is it hard and rigid, strong and supportive?
Does it buckle under pressure, or firmly hold its ground?
Is it flimsy and flexible, able to cope with anything,
Or would the simplest action cause it to be torn in two?
Is it surrounded by a plastic hard-coating, one you chose to put on,
In an effort to protect it from all of life’s spills?
Is it dressed in an extra layer of protective paper,
Which slips and falls too easily, merely an annoying fake?
Are the corners dog-eared, showing their use, not age?
Are there smudges smeared across it from your last adventure?

Now, turn the pages of your favourite book,
Look through the words that you think you know so well.
You know the tone and the structure, the word choice,
You know this better than everyone else.
No matter the years, it will always be there,
The happy words, the sad tears that will fall.
The same feelings will be produced, no matter the years,
You think that you know everything within these sheets.
Are the words superficial, with no deeper meaning,
Or do they hold so much weight that it burdens your heart?
You can spend the whole day with this book as company,
Needing no other and knowing this so well.

Now, read it again, but look further into it,
Read between the lines and go deeper than me.
What do you see? Is there anything new?
Hidden water marks, newly found meanings,
No matter the days, you seek silence with it.
There is always something new, something never seen before,
You thought that you knew it. Does anyone know their books?
Hidden trust, hidden thoughts kept only for the author.
You should not judge a book by its cover,
First check what’s within and really study it.
Don’t join the ranks of those naïve and self-absorbed,
To presume that they know what’s inside from the cover.
The cover and words alone do not make the book,
There is emotion and depth deep within,
Consider the honour of truly knowing the book and its author,
To whom have you allowed entrance past your front cover?

© Persephone M May 21st 2011

A Family Home – Poem

Set back from the street,
Placed behind large imposing gates,
There is a home.
The brick and mortar, wood and slate,
Is all at one, joined together,
To be more than just a house.
Wooden, solid doors, possess no hole,
Through which anything can pass,
There is no entrance without permission.
For the others, peering through the wrought iron,
Foreboding, imposing, too strong to take down,
They smile and wave, but pass on quickly by.
Cobwebs on the windows, mean there is nothing fresh,
Closed up and locked down tight, outside is just that,
The family inside need nothing else but their bricks.
The rooms are filled with noise, the life and laughter,
Of people in love, able to share their soul and light,
Running freely from room to room, one to another.
No one beyond the gate could ever know the bonds,
Which remain unbreakable, untinged, and perfect,
With the proximity of years on their side.
A secret language shared between them, from their hearts,
Even with the bricks, the only true survivor,
And the biggest confidante, holding on tightly.
To it, they owe everything. To them it owes it all,
The building, to the house, to the home,
They all know each other’s secrets.
Except for the furthest room with blacked out windows,
And a keyhole in the door, which holds its own tongue,
The contents long forgotten. The key lost long ago.

© Persephone M 18/4/2012


Poem: Overlooking Normal

Standing there alone, her balcony to the world below,
She’s alone with her thoughts as the world passes by.
It’s all at her feet and it could all be hers, if she wanted it,
Or she could stand there alone with no desires met.
It’s all superficial in her sector of the world,
All about looks, possessions and not what’s inside.

Her shocking pink towelling keeps her warm under the sun,
Keeps the naturally heated yellow from her orange skin.
The tartrazine hair that’s brittle and scraped up,
Barely blows on the motionless early morning outing.
Bare footed on the decking, her toes wriggle free,
A few minutes left and then her comfy couch will beckon.

The traffic hums beneath her, steadily throughout the day,
A normal lull after and before the working day times.
She only knows from her hourly foray into sunlight,
That others have a routine more complex than she.
The children passing her, pass her by without a care,
An occasional glance and smirk at their awaiting life.

Across the road on which they all run, hidden in bricks,
The cooks of the future practice hard behind the black outs.
Wondrous smells diffuse through the fog and smoke,
Of foreign dishes, natural methods, no added toxins.
She knows nothing of what occurs behind the open windows,
She knows only of tins, cans, jars, of take-aways, of junk.

Huffing and puffing, her head’s almost lost in the clouds,
A life wasted some would say, a life enjoyed by her.
She knows nothing else, doesn’t understand “potential”,
Young or old, because who can tell with the added lines,
A sadness washes over me for what she believes in,
Daytime TV on the sofa, Nighttime dancing on a floor.

In the corner, everything’s piling up: dirty clothes, dirty dishes,
A pile of babies play near by, fighting and screaming.
In that minute of peace, she forgets all about the life inside,
Only to return and Yell for silence to watch her shows.
They’ll follow her example from now and to forever,
Living worse than rats, reproducing like bunnies and her.

She was never given potential, or the room to grow,
The same punishment falls upon them now, doomed.
None know of anything else, their cards have been dealt,
They can see no escape from their Alcatraz, my Hell.
Until men walk in and buy her a drink, receiving much more,
He can be the new father, he can be her saviour.

It all turns sour from the first sobering moment,
Yet they all cling on, sinking further away from potential.
She yells and she screams, she fights with the men,
Then yells and screams at the babies for fighting back.
Until someone breaks and the men flee in the night,
Leaving heartbroken babies and another on the way.

(c) Persephone Muse 16th July 2011
I wrote this last year, inspired by a woman who still persists on watching the real world pass her by. Simultaneously, I’m able to look down upon her, look up to her and meet her eyes dead on.
~ Persephone M

Inconceivable Truth – Poem

The faceless anonymity,
Of a secret revealed.
No – No, not a secret.
The truth in that line,
About the life, the pain,
Normally concealed.

The nervous anticipation,
Of undressing for all.
No – No, not undressing.
Baring the soul in that line,
About the reality, the hidden,
By simple non-action.

The shameful pride,
Of what appears to be.
No – No, not what appears.
The unknown still hidden,
About to be blinded,
In the harsh light of day.

The silent words,
Of which remain in the mind.
No – No, not anymore.
Tapping at the keyboard,
Still hiding behind the bytes,
But taking the first tiny step.

The me you don’t know,
Of the me you might know.
Yes – Yes, you may learn.
The pain, the truth, the speech,
All hidden by my tongue,
Read my words, the inconceivable truth.

© Persephone M 22nd February 2012