Author's Content | Young Writers Project

Jul 11

Rovva

The Weeping Willow

The wind blows ever,
gently,
beneath the weeping willow.
The grass is ever,
green,
beneath the weeping willow.
The strings of life,
hang,
beneath the weeping willow.
Such things unseen,
seen,
beneath the weeping willow.

The ghosts walk ever,
quietly,
beneath the weeping willow.
The children sing ever,
softly,
beneath the weeping willow.
Love lives ever,
lively,
beneath the weeping willow.
Death comes ever,
looming,
beneath the weeping willow.

A cast of moving shadows,
dance,
in cheer and sorrowful,
cries,
in calming hallow winds,
weeping,
with long quivering eyes.

Nothing stirs ever,
alive,
beneath the weeping willow.
All who pass soon,
die,
beneath the weeping willow.

Weep,
the willow,
weep.

Jul 02

poem 3 comments

Rovva

A Year Of Missing Seasons

On hot days,
when the sun is bright,
the skies are clear,
and the air is sticky,
I would sit in front of the fan,
wishing it was autumn.

On chilly evenings,
when the air is crisp,
the leaves are golden,
and the trees rustle,
I would stare at the clowdy sky,
wishing it was winter.

On snowy nights,
when every room is cold,
the trees are naked,
and the wind is still,
I would lay awake in blankets,
wishing it was spring.

On bright mornings,
when the flowers bloom,
the rain cools into mud,
and the bees buzz,
I would pick flowers and remember,
that it is now.

Jun 21

poem 2 comments

Rovva

I'm going crazy for you.
My mind,
which was once empty,
once clear,
is filled with subliminal,
and vague,
scattered messages.

I don’t know what to do.
Your eyes,
reflect my every desire.
Warmth,
touches my delicate skin,
pale,
and so bitter cold.

I’m holding your photograph,
thinking of you,
your lips parting in words,
sweet,
as I shy mine into a line.
I’m shy,
and my heart opens.

I want to give it to you,
my firefly,
who glows in the palm of my hand.
My ship,
that is always there to carry me.
My flower field,
hugging my body as I greet the sky.

I go crazy when you break,
every tear,
forming cracks along your face,
hurts me,
more than I could ever take.

I want to kiss every tear,
very tenderly,

Jun 20

poem 0 comments

Rovva

Lights in the Atlantic

Your smile glimmers,
like the ocean tides;
white marble stones,
on dark pink earth.

Mine is hidden,
like hide-and-seek;
little fading angels,
on bleeding red.

Your eyes are bright,
like twinkling stars;
lights in the Atlantic,
riding on tiny boats.

Mine are dark,
like cave mouths;
long black tongues,
hungrily stretching.

Your dreams are lively,
with color and laughter;
painted in your sleep,
drifting as you wake.

Mine are nightmarish,
stained with screams;
painted in running red,
filling my awakened mind.

I was once,
a light like you are,
but I've gone dark,
and your light is,
so painfully,

too far.

Jun 19

poem 1 comment

Rovva

One Last Time

The moon is a home that I can live in,
a place of refuge,
rescue from heartache,
a bed of feathers carved into a smile.

The moon is my mother who cradles me,
my lover in white,
my distant sister,
my friend who waves when I see them.

The moon shines in my dreams,
brilliantly glowing,
lighting my sky,
and never leaving me in the dark.

She's somewhere up there,
behind a white cloud,
and I want to find her,
just to see her,

one last time.

Jun 13

poem 1 comment

Rovva

A Friend of a Friend

A friend of a friend,
he was to me.
I thought nothing of it.

To meet an end,
so tragically,
I wanted to think above it.

I'm not sad,
not really,
because I didn't know him at all,

But this friend of a friend,
was a friend,
of my friend,
who is now backed against a wall.

This friend of a friend,
that I can't forget,
is pulling her into the earth.

I don't want to look,
for I am afraid,
of what a glance could possibly be worth.

I have seen it in mirrors,
dark and unsettling,
and I don't want to see it again,

yet there she sits,
her head low,
crying every now and then.

I can't do anything,
to relieve that pain,
and that is the worst kind of caring,

because no matter what,
severity the storm,
I can always hear her heart tearing.

Jun 11

poem 1 comment

Rovva

It Came

You were a pile of broken bones,
desperately crying for someone,
anyone,
to put you back together.

You were a fly caught in a web,
trying to flee the black widow,
trying,
but she came one night.

You were a ghost in a window,
screaming for those inside to see,
hear,
but you were long gone.

You were a torn up photograph,
waiting for someone to repair you,
waiting,
but you were beyond repair.

I was a farmer with the tools,
to revive your field of hopeless death,
yet,
I planted more and more.

No matter what I did to help,
it was never enough to save you.
Never.
I never thought you would do it,

but you threw away your bones,
let the black widow come,
broke through the window,
and set your image aflame.

Death is a calling,
and it came.

Jun 03

poem 2 comments

Rovva

Blame

mediaRecorder_5b183b2738a37.ogg.mp3

Somewhere in the woods,
On a dreary night,
At the dreariest hour,
Diana stood on a stump,
Her hair loose;
Pale as flour.

The pine surrounding her,
In its ominous moans,
Sang to her in their dark,
Terribly ominous,
And far deep,
Yet calming tones.

"Hark!"
They begin to shout.

"Cease, must it be!
We still stand,
But only for this land,
and not for your false harmony!"

And there Diana stood,
Unbothered by it all.
She had heard their plea,
And answered their call.
If not them,
Then who shall fall?

"Humanity!
Dreadful!
Just to speak it is a shame!
There is not us,
Or our mother, Diana,
To blame!

It is them!
They have filthied us,
Drenched us in their rotten nature!
There is nothing natural about this,
Nothing good in this danger!

We have shouted and burned,

Audio download:

mediaRecorder_5b183b2738a37.ogg.mp3

May 04

poem 0 comments

Rovva

You Will Be Found

Here in the desert bloom,
The windows are down,
The wind blows on the faces of travellers,
The sand rides on the waves of warm air,
You will be free.
Here in the Spanish Sahara,
The grains will collect on the heels of your boots,
The dirt will grind and stain like light soot,
The mid-day greetings are worn favorably,
Lines of hard work drawn on faces like rough sketches,
You will be found.
Here in the mountainous plains,
The clouds clutter towards the horizon,
The trees whisper a song unsung in a choir,
The rocks await your footing on their edges,
The cliffs tower above the treelines,
The jagged pine cascading every inch of the mountain,
The sighs of wind and chirps of birds,
You will be home.
Here in the bleak winter,
Where the storms rage on their everlasting rampage,
The birds have escaped their wraths,