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Dark Night
As the shadowy figures emerge
seeming to be an otherworldly dark visage,
like the tremendous trees and branches
becoming rather bleak and scary silhouettes,
solemn giants who don't move
in the dark hush of a haunting night
and the abysmal absence of sunshine.
The crazy chill creeps dauntingly discreet
and pierces the soul into lamentation
for the sudden lack of light and life,
adoration for gorgeous calm annihilated
with the smacking silence of death.
The Winter Of Our Discontent
.
I want this one behind me. spooky!
Then the poem has some
Then the poem has some effective sucess
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitutes
Wow, what a change---not in
Wow, what a change---not in artistry, as that always remains constant and consistent in your poems---but the silence and stilness that you evoke, after having posted several poems of choreographed movement. This poem is exactly opposite in its approach---it is stasis, silence, eeriness and entropy. It reminds me of some of the bleakest passages of Eliot's poem, The Hollow Men, but more accessible and reader-friendly than that poem is. But, as you have done before, you bring the poem to a stunning, and very final sounding, conclusion.
Starward