Poem by: Rebekah Turney

Bar's full. 
Hello,
To an old friend. 
Bodies devour vacant
Seats from hungry beggars,
Like empty stomachs, exuding 
Long regret and 
Wishful thinking. A 
Small Chair scrapes the hard wood 
Floor from a nearby table and 
Pulls toward the counter. 
Silent ease. 
Bar top stands tall, 
Blinding. 
Little specks of stars 
Waver into its fining.
He sits low, the
Corners of his mouth curl upward. The 
Shine against his
Face does not dull his gaze. 
Cold glass
Filled to the 
Brim. It's sweat
Drips down on his 
Eager fingers. Ice bobs, and his hands 
hold tight.
"I may not have had much to 
Give, but I have a lot to 
Give tonight." 

Let the pages turn.

Let the wind that always billows in

Blow them over.

You don’t need to pull them back to where they were.

The pages turn, so write anew.

Write your story from where you are

And plant the seed that soaks the morning dew.

A new dawn to feed the flower meant to blossom-

To grow at your expense

And for everyone else’s.

Let the water drip from your blooming pedals,

Down to the collective waters.

Watch it ripple,

Watch it go-

Far reaching as it flows.

Always moving, changing,

Fluidly it’s body travels to souls on going-

Down the road,

The many paths that many go,

Their own.

Webs of you trickle down to help the souls in need.

Let the bloom extent it’s hues of love we yearn-

The love you learn as you grow.

❤Bekah Turney

I sit alone again in the dark.

The trees are lit by a dim lit lamp.

And a soft hum of its dying light

Echoes a song of comfort-

Tales of a young girl on still summer night’s.

Molecules of the air only broken by

The gentle sound

Of words whispered through my bones-

Waiting to be spoken,

Waiting to be unhinged.

From these desperate lips I set a bargain,

Quarreling both heart and mind.

To reach an understanding,

A balance that peace can flow and bind

These sobbing opposing ends

To meet another in kind.

My muscles shake as fatigue consumes

And devours my restless hold

Of what I should let go,

Of what I have no control.

Blisters break and knuckles crack

As the soap is lathered to it’s core.

Wash away the truth

That watches me as I wake,

Watches as I place the shell over my soul.

Alas this tale is old,

And I see the young girl on her stoop

Listening to the hum of dying lights

On still summer night’s.

And ask her kindly how to find her heart again.

Cause she was free, and she was me.

And her freedom I see within,

Now reunited with a long forgotten friend.

——————————————-

Thoughts I redirect:

——————————————-

Truth can never be washed away.

It stays like residue on the skin

coming back time again.

To kiss at the open wounds created

by the resistant mind.

So I say it’s time to withdraw the blade that

keeps the pain.

Let it scab and understand

that truth is freedom,

and it heals our lost suicidal ways-

Of self sabotage we succumb to,

Day after day-

Lifting the veil to see,

No longer herding through life aimlessly.

Winter prickles my calloused fingers
While darkness consumes the night.
But a lamp hung up not too far
Blinds me with its simple light.
My eyes yearn for the stars
Hidden by the fog that cowers down.
It kisses the cracks of endless days
Of sweeping plans under the rug,
And shaping visions blurred from shame.
Bright and naked
Your light I absorb-
Alone you shine in the daunting haze.
Reflecting off the mist
That barrels through one day
And gone the next.
Can it be so simple-
But a spark you are in silent pause,
Minutely standing amongst the days end.
And you warm my cold eyes
That sit stifled in chains,
To now feel the melting essence of a summer day.

by: Bekah Turney

Remember your roots, she tells me-

To remember the roots that stretch through the depths of me from past ’til now.

From time that is constant and all the same,

Time that slips but still remains.

Remember your roots, she tells me with particular concern-

For there I will heal the damaged ends bristled with pain.

A touch of my care to quench the thirst of love I yearn.

by: Bekah Turney

Just a little while, my love,
Till we be over that horizon-
Over to the water 
That will kiss at our patient feet. 

Just a little longer more
While time turns its knotted neck,
To a place where we can be alone and
Hear the waves roll against the sand. 

Just a closing of our eyes 
That open to a fresh new dawn,
Whilst the rotten bark gets peeled off
Of our aging rooted trunks. 

Just a while more, my love, till
We embark our journey again.
To renew the kindled fire that 
Was sparked under that high tide's moon.

By: Rebekah Turney

Image: 1wallpaper.net

Something came over me as I watched my guard crumble to the floor. I embraced myself as a flame inside became ignited. He brought forth this force within me- summoned it from the deepest, coldest caverns of my soul. Gently, he cupped his magnetic hands under my chin with peaceful ease, and patient open eyes. He withdrew from me what lied submerged in lost darkness- his inhale guiding out the part he wished to show was still alive.

Their warm presence seeps in 
Like a smooth welcoming haze. 

Over my being, they guide their trusting hands
Upon my soul with truthful, bursting noise. 

Intricately sewn into me,
The DNA of my ancestors sings-

Calling forth my roots
That are buried as deep as the oak. 

My heart throbs at the longing of being together,
To intertwine our souls tightly as one. 

They pull me to soil
Not yet touched by my feet in this life,

Courting me from place to place-
Down the path where I need to be. 

To ignite the fire
That already lives within my soul's divine space.  

By: Rebekah Turney

How its branches lay out,

The thick aged trunk steeping into the soil-

Flexing its way through the earth,

Reaching endlessly.

How the wind tickles the leaves

And whispers to me softly-

Caressing my collarbone

As it pricks the hair up on my skin.

The branches open their arms up to me,

Begging me to join them,

Asking me to come and play-

So that I may ease this burning sadness

And with its leaves wipe away these unhinged tears.

But I sit and continue to stare.

“What a foolish thing to climb a tree!”

I think as I remain sitting in my suffering.

Never knowing more than “what if,”

And I proceed to elude and blind the pain.

 

By: Rebekah Turney