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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

 

BETWEEN THE SEASONS
by W. Jude Aher

 

 

 

between the seasons

ice carved as light
dreams
shadows casting
all the lost images
believing
beyond the taste of
blood illusion
songs conceiving
sky frozen blue
clear mind
soul yearning
to see
between the seasons
to touch reason
crosses fall
where
skin truth whispers
love cracks the mirror
and so may
the angels sing

              

 

 

 

star-dust rhythm

water of peace
earth of dreams
silence before belief
dare
to walk alone
to pass through
the mirror of reality
and stand on
the wall of truth
care
to be of
star-dust rhythm
to dance
under the light of
forever

                 

 

 

 

slow on a young man's mind

i see water
spill as blood
from an old dream
where my soul
walked free
endless sidewalks
late night lamp lit
shadows
dancing
across the quiet sleep
of children
behind closed windows
my open hand
filled by sand
moist with blood-water
dry lips
lost sips of rhyme
so in love with time
slow on a young man's mind
long highway talking
measured echoes
and walking
sunset calling
tired soul falling
into
and tomorrow
just another dream

 

 

 

 

crossing change

quiet dances a wind
daring dreams
to
begin
in the sea
seasons bleed
seeds
possibilities
fingers free
painting
clouds in song
quick drift
easy reasons
crossing change
where rainbows
fall free
across the lips
of water sirens

 

 

shattered windows

such are the whispers
of silence
who dance as shadows
of lost wind rhymes
time
the chimes of moments
shattered windows
no beliefs left
to lie upon
empty hands
fingers open
sand dunes across
a wooden floor
the long yesterday
carries empty
when the banshee sighs
tomorrow tomorrow
if tomorrow

 

 

 

 

About the Author:

W. Jude Aher -  40 years a Poet, from a time of Hippies and Anti-war rage, from a time when a child becomes an Artist not for the money but because the Universe and Beauty called.  Though broken and disabled, he more than survives.  A poet doesn’t just write, he lives his Art.


 

 

 




 




 

 

 

     
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