Poetry Blogs (deceased)
Devon Brock on no more the demanding sound of his snapping fingers (57 minutes ago)
Another one from the archives, this one written some time after the death of my grandfather which would put me at about 16 at the time i think.
When the sky is dark, and the wind is cold,
And the rain comes down, fold on fold,
Remember us. The silent ones
In the numbness of the Earths tight hold.
You cannot see us, or hear us talk,
But right beside you we will walk.
Saturday 15th October 2016 12:29 pm
I am but the mottled bark
of a tree once firmly rooted,
peeled from its stately trunk
and within my hollow carapace
echoes an inert drumbeat
that keeps the cadence for
a march of ornate trappings
soon and sooner still, one day
this crepuscular orphelin song
resonant in its languid longing
shall surge with the rising tide
the sound of its condescencion
as it strikes th...
Sunday 25th November 2012 2:54 pm