Poetry

Mighty oak of the meadow

Mighty oak of the meadow, may I sit beneath your leaves of green? Press my back against your twisted bark, and take a rest from the midday heat? Mighty oak of the meadow, for I am just a traveler passing through. If this grand oak could tell a tale, I bet it would have many to share. About this meadow,and other travelers who passed through as well. Over a 150yr worth of tales stowed away within wanting to be told. Wise old oak how I wish I could listen to you speak these tales. But you keep them as if they were told to you in secret. So now I must be traveling on. For I shall too become another hidden tale of the mighty oak of the meadow.

– Jamie Whorton©

With her memory

I wrote this one as song lyrics. I think it could make a good country song.

As I lie here in the dark With her memory burning through my heart. Dawn can’t get here soon enough, to light the shadows she cast upon my mind. Just tryin to make it through another night. They say I’ll be ok, there’s many more out there they say , but none of them are her. So I lie here in the dark with her memory burning through my heart. Maybe I’ll get over her someday. Move on and start again, but untill then every night your memory comes to me in a dream, and is haunting me. Untill the break of day comes to light the shadows she casts upon my mind. I’ll lie here in the dark with her memory burning through my heart.

– Jamie Whorton

If the page had a voice

The page is the tourniquet, and the ink is the blood. Bleeding ink soaks upon the page, as it pours from the pen. Catching every drop, and drinking it in. Soon the page of white will be covered by thought seldom ever said. If the page had a voice that voice would echo with a thunderous roar or let out a deafing cry. Plagued by thoughts. Pained by emotions. The writer bleeds upon the page to let go, and move on. The writer bleeds upon the page to feel whole again.

– Jamie Whorton©