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The name Edith, of Old English origin, means “prosperous in war” or “rich in battle”. It combines the elements “ead,” meaning “wealth” or “prosperity,” and “gyth,” meaning “strife” or “war”.

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Perseid in British English

(ˈpɜːsɪɪd ) noun. any member of a meteor shower occurring annually around August 12th, appearing to radiate from a point in the constellation Perseus and derived from comet Swift-Tuttle. Word origin.

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I saw you in the afterglow,
of the tailed swishes,
across a Gloaming’s sky.
I caught you in my roaming eye,
like, failed wishes;
reborn
From their own crashes; grown.

For twenty years,
you have shined on high.
Casting the heavens bright,
from the wealth,
of burning flames, on August nights.
That rage, like; war, within your name.

I witness their fractured patterns.
Thinking of you — whole.
And, reminisce, on the fire in your soul.
There, I visit your scattered ashes.
Scorching; dark, white, like, coal.
Unlimited in death,
as you were in life;

Warm, I adorn, your bravely essence, bold.

© poormansdreams

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embers demark old scars

carved

on oak soaked root’s battled heart
bark sharp piercing battles hard

never lost to a first win-
ning, brimming breath

aft submerged
then coming up
for air

loose from
the teethy grip
of grinning death

rock bottom cut me low
sore, sodden, against my row
r-oarful like broken paddles woe

when I reached out
from the drunken
drizzle’s drought

my dreams were all sunken
fried until my thoughts of;

You

holding my adult finger
in your tiny hand first-
born again
removing any, all and every doubt
in your beam my light for life
imbued

© poormansdreams

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I wear an effacing
                  kaleidoscope
                       disguised with colours
                                shapes and patterns
                           on a visage coyly laced in
                                      fabric misanthrope
                        with unpulled woollies
             under disregarded eyeful shards
                         sawn and shattered.
                              I loathe the lens
                       that I’m purviewed through
                                               and the friends
                                          I can’t allude to
                     unpleasant is the ocean’s end
                                       of the spyglass
                                         I boo-hoo through
                              why did I try to pretend?
           I yearn for the courage to perform
                            an optical iconoclast
    and burn those judge’s visions scorned
              like tropical bombs ablast
        that carry and deliver me discerned
on currach-ed wings to peaceful shores.

© poormansdreams

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A lonesome notion
dancing from my tongue
cross an awestruck ocean
where turquoise tears come from.

Solitude is draining
isolation feels like wrath
scarlet sweat a-raining
along a damson path.

Indigo and violet hues
make vanished footprints smile
when vivid reds and blues
coalesce for a while.

When we come together
to form a colour circle
our strides will call to heather
on stepping into purple.

© poormansdreams

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A picture frame on a wall.
Beckons; past-tenses,
with, iced, wooden sprawl.
Fingers point, in, stiffness,
to, stillness.                        A frozen clock.
Affixed in time.
Whilst, snow-capped, mood-lit mounts,
lift, to, chill, set; digits, mouths and lenses.

A memory, encapsulated,
for, a nostalgic blizzard’s seige.
Had, held, on, snowballed; smiling faces.
Which, roll, bolder evocation, upon release.

Who, knew, preserved eyes,
hands and hairs, could speak?
Of, simpler; age, designs,
or, a widow’s peak?

Knowing, not matters, to our; frozen clocks.
Grown; ever-after, in, houred emotions, oft.

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A stoic beacon bears it’s projecting light.
In haunted, ubiquitous, intersecting night.
Pledging to guide us from perplexed unsight.
Into sprawling vistas of untombed serenity.
On colourful canvass bloomed prosperity.
In shimmering shades and tinged tones;
yellow, purple, red, green, blue, black, white.

Cockcrow burns gloomed, mourning void.
Blanket silence sets alight, destroyed.
Smouldered quiet sizzles wisps recoiled.
Another hushed night is abruptly spoiled.

New day is capped with a beaming crown.
Seen on high for galaxies around.
Clouds muster the courage to undenounce.
An atmosphere bursting bubbles, proud.

What becomes of we cherished beacons?
As ravined routes to darkness dig and deepen.
When we close our eyes invoking lights depletion.
We open days, hearts, nights and dream’s Elysian.
Yes, when we open minds fight for the weakened.
We shine; bold, unblinkered, bright;

Earth to Elysium.

© poormansdreams

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Once. I paid,
the penultimate price,
of a life poorly led.
I left a scattered trail
of pale, poisoned coins;
that
never
did
suffice.

Lain on a floaty, cache-bought bed.
A specie, flipped, from; head to tail.
It landed, upon, my second eye, to join,
the reimbursement, for, the boatman. Twice.
I, then, entered, those; flickering doors, unever-after.
And. into, blind, eternal;
wax
and
waning
lights.

The third time,
I will close my eyes, and, have settled my debt to life.
To, Creation’s; dreamt-levy-fare, I’ll unbreak even,
with, bittersweet; harmonioustrife.

© poormansdreams

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