This rose for all the world
For you
These tears for all the dead,
Those empty words of morningtide
This ever-present dread.
Those cloying smells of perfume
on the dresses of the rich,
This workman stumbling homeward
his body in a ditch.
September’s moon still shining
on this old planet’s doom,
Her wind and tide conspiring,
A chill invades the room.
Thank you sincerely Holden.
The summer ended. Day by day, and taking its time, the summer ended. The noises in the street began to change, diminish, voices became fewer, the music sparse. Daily, blocks and blocks of children were spirited away. Grownups retreated from the streets, into the houses. Adolescents moved from the sidewalk to the stoop to the hallway to the stairs, and rooftops were abandoned. Such trees as there were allowed their leaves to fall - they fell unnoticed - seeming to promise, not without bitterness, to endure another year. At night, from a distance, the parks and playgrounds seemed inhabited by fireflies, and the night came sooner, inched in closer, fell with a greater weight. The sound of the alarm clock conquered the sound of the tambourine, the houses put on their winter faces. The houses stared down a bitter landscape, seeming, not without bitterness, to have resolved to endure another year.
James Baldwin, Just Above My Head
Sun 29th May 2022 02:06
A remarkably powerful poem, John, very evocative! 🌷
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John Marks
Sun 29th May 2022 17:30
September’s Baccalaureate
A combination is
Of Crickets — Crows — and Retrospects
And a dissembling Breeze
That hints without assuming —
An Innuendo sear
That makes the Heart put up its Fun
And turn Philosopher.
Emily Dickinson