Dogs who love the rain

Happiness, a summer fleeting,
Gone, like sunshine after rain,
Misery, so-near-completing.
Winter’s grip remains.


Death of friends leaves us diminished,
I fear we do not grasp at all.
How needy men just crave a respite,
Want the clocks to stop, is all.


Footsteps in the snow deceiving
Whiskey priests dream Magdalenas
Drunk at noon, asleep, forgetting,
Dig a grave in air, or Moon.


Do not lie so-closely, children,
Alm-house works for tramps who choose
To be the man who sings divinely,
Who loves the dogs, who dare not lose.


Whine when April zephyrs blow.
Golden, blue eyes, genes-decided,

Stranger than you seem, or know.


Drunk or sober, charm the picture
Of an ease that cannot come.
Men still plead from deeply rooted,
Musicians' violins in tune;
Music rises, never waivers,
Cast your lots and read your runes.


Human graves, already heaving,
Overburdened, sunk by time,
Death’s a mistress, we're her servants,
Hits you like a bullet train.



◄ Avoiding the Apocalypse

Premonition ►


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John Marks

Sun 24th May 2020 13:42

Thank you Cathy, Po, Mortimer & Stephen..

Regret burns. Dreams tantalise. Hope hurts.

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.

Carl Sandburg

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Sun 24th May 2020 13:26

The Elder Futhark has a lot to answer for.


Sun 24th May 2020 10:47

This is such a solemn and painful poem, perhaps that's the cost of writing the truth, it often comes out to be filled with sorrow,

A lovely poem regardless,


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