Skip to main content

The cemetery is alive

The cemetery is alive
With freshly cut mums and poinsettias.
Gathering people make it even more abuzz.

A crisp wind blows
Over each receding blade of grass –
Slowly turning them the color of brass.

A handful of tombstones –
Sun-dappled underneath oak trees –
Are scratched by fallen amber leaves.

The crucifixion mound
Overlooking it inspires the Christmas spirit
Within the hearts of those who visit.

The Unfinished Now

It can be done tomorrow.
There’s time for it later on.
It’s too draining to do.
It feels too boring to do today.
The mood is off right now.

These lines wouldn't seem so bad
if we really understood the why:
Why it can’t be done today,
Why it can’t be energizing,
Why it can’t be entertaining,
Why our emotions aren’t in line.

Perhaps to make it clearer
Today was once tomorrow?
That tomorrow, in time, will be today?
That yesterday can never be redone,
That today is all that really matters
And tomorrow is simply an extension of today?

STIGMA

It all started from genesis, That unpleasant marked nemesis. Unworthy to behold like a rag of menses, Silently crawling through life's fences. Their eyes speak louder than their lips, Their whispers pierce like poisoned tips. Names I didn't choose, but still must wear, A burden borne too deep to share. They see the body, not the soul, Their judgment digs deeper than hole. Scars invisible, but oh so real, Bruises only the heart can feel. So judge me not by wounds you see, But by the fire that burns in me. Though stigma tries to write my end, I’ll turn its ink into a pen.

First Snow

The sky breathes white, a feathered hush descends,
As flakes like feathered angels gently bend.
They weave a veil on branches etched and bare,
Transforming starkness into beauty rare.

Once vibrant greens and golds now sleep below,
A frosty blanket muffling all, a silent show.
The wind whispers secrets through the crystal spun,
A world reborn, pristine, beneath the sun.

Footprints, whispers, etched in silent grace,
A tapestry of nature's gentle pace.
The frozen pond, a mirror to the sky,
Reflects the clouds that drift on by.

Jessamyn's Song

16

There are meadows heathered with thoughts of you,
where the honeysuckle winds
in fragrant, tangled vines
down to the water's edge.

Through the wind-bent grass
               I watch time pass
slow with the dying day
on its lolling, rolling way ...
And I know you’ll soon be mine.

17

There are oak trees haggard and gnarled by Time
where the shrewd squirrel makes his lair,
sleeping through winters unaware
of the white commotion below.

By the waning sun

Subscribe to New Poems