Home Verse




Closing art by Joanie Lemercier. Click image to visit her studio.



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Ólafur Arnalds “Only The Winds”






there exists a brave new world
afar not from our own
where endless time and space unfurls
forevermore to roam
a place bereft of suffering
resting place for weary bones
for here they are not requisite
to see the flowers grow


no deficit emotional
no benefits negotiable
no pleasure unapproachable
no measure unbeknownst
this is where the souls reside
at such time as anulled from life
where they lie still; in deep rest bide
to testify of home


should we be abreast of lives
foregoing of our own
should déjà vu request confide
then best this timeless prize enthrone
for here on earth our flesh decays
while hopes and dreams are sped away
if only to authenticate
that we’re some way from home


each time we rest to meditate
we venture forth unknown
in doing so we elevate
to skies of enterprising chaperone
rising mists blow kisses as we soar the ether free of ache
across the galilean lakes
to where the river flows
the dreams, in kind, we generate
tomorrows bind to yesterdays
while spirits high accelerate
to see the flowers grow


perceptive eyes reprise such scene
to find the in-between; indeed
all memories aside
advise that this might be where we have always been
should curiosity confide
then we can venture deep inside
for this is where adventures lie
provided we possess insight
can seek the peace of mind; inclined
no mindless intervene


first we must dare to be seen
out of the flesh each impression relieves
tread tenderfoot through the felled leaves of autumn
aware of the tender of every teardrop that we bleed
prepared for frond to feed; release
the sorrows of all morrows ill-conceived
find peace within the hollow of the tree
dormant buds will thenceforth bloom
becoming not of common root
for here within seclusion; loom
the seeds of long begotten fruit


nevermore forbidden taste
such given not to mortal waste
domain bereft of suffering
for weary bones a secret place
remember as a child; you may
have dressed imagination wild
well let’s just say for honest sake
renaissance is a breath away
herein we learn to decorate
the flowers in our bones
if only to authenticate
that we have made it home






Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of The Crimson Quill




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