PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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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?

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unwritten words;

unprinted books:
orphaned thoughts

are never well placed

as an unread tome
or an uncommented
online posted poem

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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

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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.

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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. 

` 

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[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.

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