Love and Death

[Tom]

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Love & Death 

These are the two most over-plowed fields of poetic subject matter.  Especially by newbies, hacks, romantics, goths, and doom and gloomers.

And now us.     Have at it – find your own original take.  

You don’t need to swallow the whole enchilada in one bite.  You can leave a little for next year if you want.  Or if you want, a parody might slide in here pretty well.  You find angle, the voice, and you write the poem.  Easy-peasy. 

And death.

[indar]

Oh rose, thou art dead.
What invisible forces 
howling through the garden
brought you down? Ultimately
'tis my abiding neglect.

When aphids bore 
and fungus clung I did naught.
Thy naked stick,
still standing in the pot,
accuses darkly 
my driving off to beach and mountain
in this land of summer fun.
 

[Colm Roe]

Love and death share blades
they appear to cleave through our flesh with ease
not so
they are crude instruments
they slice blind with blunt strokes
and
weak muscle splits open to the slightest pressure

some seasons resist
reluctant to accept their close
linger beyond their allotted time
like damocles and dionysius

summer
separated from autumn by one hair
hardens against the assault
it will fall
but not easy
too many memories
have sinewed strong armour

love and death's sting must wait

[Deb]

Not Becoming

My greatest fear
back in the day
was to hear
my family say,
“She's not as sharp, she's out of touch
she’s lost her mind.
But really, that's not saying much,
we should just leave her behind.” 

The sages whispered, "Intelligent youth.”
the things they'd say.
Since then, I have become uncouth
the pieces fall just where they may.
Me? I’d have a great career.
Grasp my dreams,
live each moment without fear.
But life's not always what it seems.

For the sake of elasticity
I've become irrelevant.
In the mirror, that is not me
my youth is nearly . . . no, my youth's been spent.
I write and drink my rum
so regrets won't fester.
I will not succumb
to the aging jester.

Today I fear I’ve lost my touch.
Not as sharp as I used to be.
They say, “That isn’t saying much.”
Who am I to say, “I’m me!”?
The difference being,
when I was young
it was me I was seeing,
not the me who I’ve become.


~Deb

[ajduclos]

Ah, Deb.......... powerful rending revealing stuff, the pain and regrets... stuff I surely can relate to....... and so well written, gripping.

But yet, through the fears and roadblocks and compromises and decisions (or lack of them) of our lives, here we are.  And writing we are.  And moving forward, as surely we must.  Lots of shoulda, woulda, coulda's.  But we've come through much, and so much could be worse. 

I look in the mirror and am startled by that old wrinkled face that surely can't be me.  I realize I am trapped in that old body.  Then I try to remember what Clint Eastwood said recently when asked how he keeps going at his ripe old age - his answer was simply when he gets up in the morning he doesn't let the old man in.

Yes, we're not what we could have been, but we are who we are.  We made it through somehow, quite an accomplishment.  Regrets?  Yes.  But here we are.

A searing write, Deb - poingnat........

Much love.

Aj    

 

[Colm Roe]

How long does it take
to write a poem?

Is it the time you'd take 
to plan your next holiday,
or make scones (30 minutes)
for the tea you drink 
while browsing
fabulous places to visit,
develop a photograph
(or the anticipation of it)
choose a special outfit
(you'd rather not wear)
drive to the hospital
(the return journey always longer)
or write a eulogy 
(you'll spend the rest of your life rewriting)

How long does it take
to make a poet?

[Colm Roe]

We are always so close 
to the shadows,
yet so unaware.

We pick wild flowers
in fields of snakes,
rush to Summer water
with fanatical needs 
to be re-anointed,
and all the while
surrounded
by unseen beasts.

Love pulls us there too,
its perils are also real,
include all of the above, but
we still dive in
regardless.



  

[Tracy Mitchell]

Great posting, Colm -- solid, solid poeming.  

[Lecram06]

We are always so close 
to the shadows,
yet so unaware.

We pick wild flowers
in fields of snakes,
rush to Summer water
with fanatical needs 
to be re-anointed,
and all the while
surrounded
by unseen beasts.

Love pulls us there too,
its perils are also real,
include all of the above, but
we still dive in
regardless.



  

The line "to be re-anointed" is full of the unspoken. Gripping poems. Marcel

[Colm Roe]

His death might be a Summer thing...
we'll see.

It might upset plans and delay flights,
that's what it does,
messes with routines.
 
I'm sure there are good times to die.
I know when I'll go...
but this isn't about me.

He doesn't want to die,
scared shitless of it.

But he's brave everywhere else,
where it matters,
for his family.