A winter blossoming

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In this mild mid-winter breeze of splintered selves

The trees blend into silhouttes; and I see elves

Whose shadows transform perceptions

Into creation. And all the world of

Getting and spending grinds to a halt,

For one holy day. Death may be far away or near

At hand, we have no crystal balls. We must put

All our heart and soul into conveying the simplicity of love

To those lying bereft of love,  suffering on a far-shore wondering

What is life for? Why do the wicked prosper?

Why do all my actions end in the suicide of my self?

Grinding me into the narrow confines of convention

And, yet, freeing me to expand into these mothers of invention.



◄ A continuing calvary

The foggy, foggy dew ►


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Don Matthews

Sat 28th Dec 2019 21:32


Yes. Surely this is the purpose of poetry. To pull at the emotions. Tears, laughter, sadness and all our other varieties.....

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Sat 28th Dec 2019 16:12

Have you ever read poetry so beautiful it makes you want to cry? That's what this poem does to me. From the first line to the last, I am in awe of your gift. I hope you keep writing until you draw your last breath. Thank you for sharing your poems with us John. 💖

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