Poetry Blogs (2009, death)
Don Matthews on WEEKLY WALKABOUTSVERSE, E.G., 79 OF 230: PIE IN THE SKY? (5 hours ago)
In poetry, autumn is approaching death.
The mists of receding memory
part briefly in the shortening days
to feed the fruits of wisdom
to admiring young.
The dark night of winter
is a short blight
before life springs forth
again in proud perfection.
Floral beauty and rich crops
have spread their radiance,
fed their progeny, sown their seeds.
Done their job, returned to earth
Wednesday 16th December 2009 12:08 pm
Beyond the Equinox
The land sleeps,
furrowed, cold and still.
Each field edge mourns
in widow’s weeds.
The flocks keep silence
on the hill,
while nature weeps
in golden cloak,
and through the mist,
like incense smoke,
sheds slow confetti
for her dead.
Thursday 24th September 2009 3:49 am
Gone is the mind where love and hope once played,
She feels the urge to paint a world with blood.
She watches moonlight dance along the blade.
She dreams a world of red in every shade,
Would banish all the rainbow if she could.
Gone is the mind where love and hope once played.
All trust now shredded, reason torn and frayed,
A hollow corpse where once a woman stood;
She watches moonlight dance along th...
Thursday 13th August 2009 12:49 pm
the needles click
as strand by strand
in cracked crabbed hands
might haul them
back to land
her days, her nights are one, the same -
a gift of darkness borne by grief
to wounds already salted well.
lips taste each quarter
of the wind; she hears the tides
advance, retreat -
as if in echoes from
some ancient stranded shell.
she feels t...
Monday 4th May 2009 2:25 pm
Last stop before paradise.
An April rain has streaked the windows, smudging the view of suburban streets.
The chill breeze bends the spring’s first flowers and the TV’s showing old repeats.
In the lounge of The Willows nursing home the care assistants are serving teas.
After the adverts comes the snooker and ever...
Saturday 14th February 2009 1:34 pm
Somewhere, nowhere, between the press of sheets and ventilator’s suck and hush, his hourglass drips. The moving mountains mark his time, his pulse, his pressure, as he slips and slides through crusts of consciousness. These walls can barely hold him now; what’s left could smudge and melt away through every crack, but for the weight of years ��" the slack tide of a fading past...
Sunday 25th January 2009 2:08 pm