.
In this lifetime of striving
childhood's tentative bumbling,
youth's arrogant impertinence,
middle aged regimented conceit,
in old age, encrusted intolerance;
when will we likely ever win?
.
.
unwritten words;
unprinted books:
orphaned thoughts
are never well placed
as an unread tome
or an uncommented
online posted poem
.
.
flame
running faster than
you can flutter a lash
flash
rushing swifter than
we can sniff a flower
fresh
rippling quieter than
they can queue on Black
Friday
.
.
Never too early, never too late;
Life can be a heaped-up plate.
Today you are comfy, tomorrow, lost;
Yesterday's loss determines the cost.
The future disguises no blemishes.
Hope's a parachute that never perishes.
.
filled with melancholy
mood lit by lampshade
names and faces dissipate
weathered post it sticks
if only the memory did
`
My butterfly is no longer mine,
I wonder if she ever really was;
When she alights on my shoulder
I know she wants me to hold her -
Flies off and she's mine no longer.
My butterfly so frail and fine,
I wonder if I was ever hers;
When she returns to kiss me again
I know she's more than just a friend -
Flies off and gone forever more.
`
.
[for Emily Jane]
this was written after having to struggle through Wuthering Heights in English Lit....
Then I moved on to the other writings of Miss Brontë.... strange reaction...
especially writing to someone long dead (1982)
The night has fallen around us
And the wind it savagely blows;
A wicked mood is cast upon me,
One from which I cannot go.
Against the night, orbs on lamp posts loom,
Flickering forth a sickly yellow light;
A storm from deep within advances,
And still no hope for me to go.
Heavy leaded clouds drape the sky,
The paving just as dark below;
Such sight it fails to move me,
I cannot and I will not go.
.