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  • ericwinnert 12w

    Water Like Thoughts

    In the lakes of my mind,
    waves move like thoughts
    rippling along
    gaining strength
    And momentum:
    they spread out,
    break against the bank,
    then ripple back to their epicenter:
    like a thought
    turning back on itself -
    an Echo in reverse
    Becoming ever more intense
    with each repetition.

    The sun, watching from above,
    casts shimmering gems
    onto the lakes surface -
    Like epiphanies
    They seem to appear,
    As if from on-high
    Bright and shining,
    Reflecting something
    Precious and other worldly -
    Impossible to grasp,
    But there all-the-same,
    They bring joy
    As they flicker and dance
    Illuminating the face,
    Feeding the mind.

    Serenely
    The waves lap at the shore,
    The metronomic sound
    Lulls me to a hazy drowse;
    The gentle splashing
    Brings on small dreams
    That intrude at the edge
    Of my sleep.

    I float contentedly
    On the lake's surface,
    Basking in the glimmering
    Sunshine, when a fierce wind -
    Like a tortuous memory -
    Whips up the water
    And rocks me to and fro:
    My dreams become turbulent,
    Nightmares rise out of the dark
    As monsters of the sea
    Wishing to crush and kill
    All that is beautiful
    In its path.

    I pray for the sun
    To break through
    The storm clouds
    And warm the wind
    Bringing it down gently
    To the level of
    Contentment I felt
    Before the
    Monstrous thoughts
    Tried to throw me
    Into the void,
    Through a whirlpool
    that circles
    round and round
    Dragging me down
    Into darkness,
    The cold waters
    Rushing over me -
    monstrous memories
    Drowning me…

    thoughts like water


    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 15w

    The Sea

    I well up and embrace the shore
    Like a long lost lover:

    My waves reaching up to kiss
    The tenderest spot -
    Receding, my bubbles caress
    Soft drenched sand,
    That silken skin which receives
    My tenderest touch.

    And like lovers that part
    I slowly ebb away
    Letting out a mournful call
    As I sink back
    To another long lost love
    On the other side of the globe.


    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 15w

    *Samsara Hinduism/Buddhism the cycle of death and rebirth to which life in the material world is bound.

    #samsara #sonnet @writersnetwork

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    Untitled Sonnet I

    When the day is grey and the rain falls and the 
    Scales inch up with the belt one more notch, a 
    Big slice of cake dripping with sweet sauce
    Seems to be a mother's kiss to make it all better.

    Like Samsara*, the cycle of death in life 
    You're born into a grey miserable wet existence;
    You try every pleasure to chase away the rain clouds,
    But the storm keeps raging on and on. 

    And all this is like a merry-go-round that just won't 
    Quit. You're enticed on with a promise of fun and excitement,
    But the thrill soon turns to fear as you're thrown to 
    The edge, clinging to the centre scared you'll be hurled 

    Off into oblivion. And the suffering and anxiety of this 
    Torturously repetitive existence makes the sticky toffee cake seem worthwhile after all.



    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 20w

    I used to live in a street in the sky
    On the ground: Hague Row.
    It always made me think
    Of the master of trenches
    Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig.

    But sadly their names were spelt differently
    A war zone by any other would be just as bad.

    A thousand in the sky
    A thousand in a trench,
    All herded, as some would like to say,
    As cattle to certain doom.

    Yet both Hauges offered
    A victorious utopia
    At the end of it.
    All you had to do was
    March down the Row
    Or saunter along a trench.

    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 25w

    My attempt at writing some poems in the style of the #Imagist movement after reading a book about them #ezrapound

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    Morning

    I.
    Sun rises up - 
    A titan yawning -
    Its warm, living breath
    Wakes everything with awe.

    II.
    Cold glare
    Wanes down slowly,
    Sinking behind 
    To sleep the day away.

    III.
    Incoherent discordant 
    Chirps resound
    Among the warming
    Mulch of icy ground


    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 28w

    An attempt to add cohesion in my #surrealist poem

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    Farmer

    Karma is the farmer of the fruit
    That abounds in the orchards
    Of the soul.

    To see and peer over a domestic garden wall
    Will incur the great wrath of a
    Whirlwind breathing in dusty ways;
    Suffocating and clogging pores of the fruits' skin.

    Water pours in to drown the root
    Of a mute bird flapping a wing
    In the singing branches of a
    bitter delusion; sucking and taunting revelries in a sky
    Beyond a Trojan horses' fake friends
    Of wrong actions, taken midway
    At a midnight sun.


    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 29w

    Words by a Small Lake

    Coming off the wind like a bird that seems perturbed
    In the cold ice of offices
    That regurgitate regulations
    Such is the hights of a corner
    In a grown man
    That will shine and shimmy
    When the mountains of waves bring such gratification.

    Rustle and bustle of a bee-swarm
    Swimming in the light sun
    Shimmying in a breeze.

    Dog that wades in a glimmer of suspicion
    In a den of men
    Surveying scenes of great reluctance
    Flies through the clouds
    Resting on a mountain back.

    The sea shanty man
    Flows over the great backs of Indra
    That brings a shiver of recollection of Shiva
    That brings forth froth
    In the blink of an eye
    That weeps for wife and strife.

    In a centre of a plant
    Bringing bees and herds of sheep
    Shawn from the life lived less than perfect
    In eyes from a spiders.

    Eight lives
    Bringing one less than my cat
    With tails of hard granite
    Living out a time of insufferable stones
    With jaggered cornices
    From churches in the great sun
    Aighting amongst big trunks of sand and stone,
    That break and broke
    In a wild desolate desert
    Of the little toe that went to market
    All the way home down the lane
    With three bags black and little
    In the white bar of night.

    Jesus and Abraham bring eggs
    To break the fast track of air plains
    Bringing salvation to devastation
    Of wool shards
    In cotton plants of high octane energy.

    Orange and yellow floats in a way
    The same as flowers flying high on garden walls.

    In mine ditches bringing gold, tin and rubies
    Will in an end of an east shower
    Bring fluff and dust
    And shuffle off this mighty mortal coil
    To gigantic precipices.

    On edges of gardens baked clean
    In a golden sun of such like hues
    As the dog and butterfly never saw
    Is the plant of lives lived in unison.



    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 31w

    A saw a thing and wrote a poem

    #skin as #trees #oldage gets us all

    @@writersnetwork #writersnetwork

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    Insidious Slash

    The slash on the bark reminds me
    Of the slash on my skin
    That hideous ugly thing
    Caused by an insidious disease.

    That stealthy creeping disease
    That crept across my skin
    Threatening to devour me
    Limb after limb
    In the way poisonous fungus
    Covers trunk after trunk

    Of dark old trees
    In thick black woodlands
    born from the ancient seeds
    Of benevolent beings
    Before a time of love and pain.

    But a good doctor
    cut the disease
    And drained the
    Rank puss
    away from the
    Whithering skin -
    A skin that encases a worn heart.

    But the wound healed badly,
    Creating a scar of hard gnarled tissue;

    The slash of my disfigured skin
    reminded me of that bark
    On a time battered ash.


    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 34w

    I've been #experimenting with #surreal poetry and rolling #rhythm. These poems should be read out loud for the full effect @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    Trains go bye

    Trains clickety-clack
    Through boroughs of branches.
    Burrows pass by unexpected
    Waiting on clouds like waitresses
    Waiting for buses; coming and going
    Upside-down-inside-out 
    Going through tunnels
    Ripping mountains wide open.
    In the height of daydreams
    Closing the springtime
    Amongst thistles on a low sea
    Level with moor hill
    A brick wall in drystone formation
    Is amongst bare sheep dung.


    ©ericwinnert

  • ericwinnert 39w

    I little #lovepoem

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    Love ditty

    My dear sweet thing!
    But wait..
    Why do they call you a thing?
    You are not a thing to me
    You to me are my everything.


    ©ericwinnert