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Bev Flynn Poetry
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Heron on Ice
Bev Flynn
Stability... inside a puddle
Bev Flynn
Fuel
Bev Flynn
©2016 by Bev Flynn Poetry. Proudly created with Wix.com
Longhand, sown to letterbox her fingertips consoled ..in dirt and words elements shaped like old-fashioned clay then offered.. to the world formed by an old-fashioned girl #EarthDay
She walks the grail as olden colors cry to wilderness her thoughts in tangled mess like bedhead, to a trunk. There's something live.. within her pulse like tears conjoined with spark a welling up of current, vibe and love
A poet's tease.. as shelter they reach to opened heart as might shrinks down the distance - their words fool love.. that far to touch below your surface of everything you are
Questioning A cнoιce once spoke It's truth went Unexpressed It's said, it's chance was Distant But really it Was awfully close.. to near. If only we Could cross back Time through colors of our Sleep Trans sensory perception Seems we're only a Guest, of our dreams
The birth of words that glisten in the hands of love, and lore where a poet, wedges sun between the novelty.. and page. The key to their dimension leaves you tethered.. to a shutter which whispers, through the lens before the fade
Petals of the smitten word, in blush hide poetries so molten soft, like flames inside a portal opens like red-stars, lit.. in floral phrase. Upon our page of palest courage traced.. upon magnolia dust reminds us, why we started here and what our line's.. become
I've played the fool in a poet's dark in misbelieving their tragic phrases of light.. beneath their pages a shadowhunter once I didn't know.. that a ghost arouses time as the pulse of the words, grows quiet for me, the lore went out with the flames fading-out of an unused name
We're not a conscious happening this ghostly tale of tragic our words.. can not evolve us beyond the centuries. I will us.. to collide on rays of intervention where the hum of fog, begins as the poem.. softly spins
We write our lives, with embers as the words defy nostalgia we look for love's reflection as the bonfire.. simmers on. Describing how that flame is felt.. is futile as we stand against it's current with precision.. and recall
She's feeling.. very fragile as the barefoot season lengthens on the edge of words, unspoken there's no degree of stopping. As spillout, from a nick in clouds fills halfway up the blade her footsteps, cut no shadow as she fades.. into the glade #PoetryMonth
Those trails of grid and hedge we'd roam, within our season freed beneath the colors in the air. All I'm seeing now, are the colors of the other echoes.. ones that won't become the ones, still to be made. This Spring.. my grief is yellow. Here's to all our memories, in the maze
These faces, of conflicting moods are facets we display our voice of self, through ego owns confessions.. light to dark. Those raw and yellowed sunrays that lie masked between our skin, and soul at times can rein in impulse or lift us.. to survive. We all possess both sides