On dusted Parchment

photo credits: s1.favim.com

barely visible
letters adorn
dusted yellowing
parchment
as stitches are
divorced
from fraying binders
and
leather bound covers
are held by
fragile
pleated hands
read by waxen glow
his eyes
opaque
he struggles

words of writers
embodied
past times
treasures
as grandmother’s necklace
handed down

feelings etched
from another mind
another vision
penned
with quill
from brighter
eyes
unaware who may
read
whose hands will touch
the ink or
turn
the page

words of love…
philosophy
poetry
pain
a writers life once lived
sharing
deepest thoughts
to be read
again
and again

don’t shut the book
forever wondering
what knowledge beauty
joy
is held
blow off the dust
read what is written
so that you may
learn
to close the book
shall only
close your mind

~~~~~~~~~~~

Miriam from    http://anotherwanderingsoul.wordpress.com/2013/06/05/my-pages/  and I have once again written a piece from a photo that Miriam has chosen.  We then post our pieces at the same time (or near enough) not knowing what the other has written. Please go and see her contribution.

Picture it and Write – I am blind but still I see

From Picture it & Write gallery     the pic this week is stunning! 

This week I shall continue with the original theme with my own version from a post I wrote some time back ( you shall find in Poetry and Prose) ‎which I have altered slightly.  I have used a basic rhyming pattern. I hope it is worthy. My entry is in bold black.

My fingertips reflect the world back to me. What I cannot see, I feel, smell, taste, and hear. I feel shadows as I reach for the sun and smell the coming weather on the wind. I’ve never felt deprived of sight even though I’m blind, but sometimes my fingers have a mind of their own. At first, I felt nothing. There would be periods of my day missing; people actually accused me of drawing. At first I didn’t believe them, now I’m awake when I draw. Despite feeling shoved to the back while something else controls my movement, there’s a wave of serenity that keeps me calm. Am I crazy, or just weak? Everyone else has their magic under control.

I hold tulips as they start to unfold, hold the wedding ring and imagine what’s gold.
lift my face to the clouds that I’m told drift through the sky,  sadly miss the expressions of those that walk by
touch the leaves that curl brittle on trees, listen to buzzing from the hive made from bees

Fingers embrace spider webs lacy and glossy, hear as a mother shouts, finger pointed and bossy
imagine the stars on warm summer nights, though never to witness them sit in the sky
jump in the crest of the waves at the beach, set my goals high for things I can reach

Cannot see faces of those that smile wide, or the glow and the love on the face of a bride
can hug all the animals four legged or two, won’t see the lovers face that bids me adieu
painting butterfly wings coloured and frail, touch my words that are penned in braille

Visualise the flight of a woodland hawk, or the joy I would feel to see my child walk
I can feel shiny, the dull, old and the new, wet my fingers on blades in first morning dew
I grasp hold of tree trunks standing tall in the forests, run my fingers across sculptures and paintings of artists

I wish to see happiness in the faces of lovers, or stare into eyes of lonely street beggars
love I would feel sighting a newly born babe, I cannot have this, there is no escape
let me see those who share wealth with the poor, show me the sadness of those who yearn more

I feel the sunshine on a hot summers day, I feel the winter snow, slowly drifting away
I see things that the sighted do not see, is it a gift or simply just me…