A sweet flower's funeral
displayed in the cold months
of snowy weather and bone chilling shivers.
A sweet flower burned away, dried up;
buried six feet under.
Oh, my sweet flower,
how you once bloomed with no remorse,
like a madman blooming with beauty
and a glorious halo over your head
shinned with such power and blinding glory.
Oh my sweet flower how you have gone now,
resting in peace in the land of paradise.
Oh, my heart it is weak when I see your face,
of once beautiful smiles and warm embraces.
I can hear your crying out to be free.
Snowing and bone chilling cold ripes at my soul
and feelings of sorrow rage through my blood,
boiling my hatred to the world, for losing your
sweet and ever glorious beauty.
What I would give away, if I could be with you
one last night, one last night together
to hold you in my arms, to smell your sweet perfume
that brings back sweet memories of you and I.
What I would do to be with you,
such romance travels through my heart in the highways
of my veins in my body, love is all throughout me,
and my heart breaks when pictures of you start to collect dust.
My love for you, my sweet flower,
is still ingering through the air,
as I travel and look upon a tombstone
which shows your beautiful name.
Come to me my dear flower,
when spring comes,
come to me my dear, sweet flower.
And bloom once again,
twice as large as last year,
and ten times more beautiful then last year.
Come to me in the first months of spring
in my dreams, so I could sit and talk with you.
I miss you already,
and my heart crys,
my eyes flood with tears of sorrow.
I miss our love we shared.
warm cuddling embraces
and beautiful displayed in a picture frame.
Now I hear the tapping of raindrops on my window pane.
That is all that keeps me company,
that and the rose you gave to me
and a picture of you and me.
Love is endless, even when blue eyed Death comes to visit
and play a game of chess with us,
we all play our game, my love.
I shall go tonight
in my sleepy slumber
and dream of you in the times of our height in our love for each other.
My lost love, you are gone, resting in paradise,
but never forgotten my sweet flower.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski
Spring and Sharks.
It is spring nature is green and there are many
variations of verdant, fluffy, shining to sober
olive, with emerald and jade in between.
Yellow is not in to day except for the sun that
shines and rain which is clear as laughter of joy.
Yet I think of lemon sharks that reside in
the Caribbean Sea, they live in shallow water
give birth to little ones; sharks can be avoided
by not swimming in their sea.
There was a knock on my door, a man nicely
dressed, tried to sell me insurance, something
to do with paying for my funeral.
But spring is here and my thoughts are not
morbid. He left me with a brochure of the price
of coffins and the cost of flowers….
It is raining now, gentle rain good for potatoes
and beans, sharks belong to the sea and should
not going around knocking on people´s doors.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen
You had said when I kidded you? After all I'm not going to be far away? Now you are put to rest?In a place dug and slabbed for you alone As if you were not going to rest for good ?with all the others?
It is a place to a side in the pebble-strewn sidewalk ?against the wall ?your feet to the east ?all the other feet to the south ?As of a general standing to a salute from his army
There was no sight of you ?The golden chocolatish-pink of your casket ?made more glittering the cross? I couldn't guess if you would have wanted the Church's ornament then the feeling of being out-of-place? thoughts of you in a cloud
We talked in suppressed tones? about you of you ?trying to be polite and succeeding among uneasy fellows? here and there some unwanted details slipped in through nervousness ?yet none felt your hand tremble on the racket
You were the master of the court ?as now you mastered your going by the low sleek slate-grained marble? in sharply polished angular correctness ?amidst shy upright cypresses and neatly cut passage ways of chipped stone
We sprinkled your tomb with Church water ?Neither rain nor snow you remember could keep you from finishing your game? Already as we turned in a column the voices now louder in the distance? They were arranging the roughly hewn stone slabs ?before the marble thickened your bed
You may at last be at rest ?with no one to challenge you to a test of strength? your referee's whistle holding its un-disputable silence
You came with the spring ?Now you go in cheery spring ?Your sollicitous voice still lingers in our courts ?You knew us all by name and style at play ?long before we met under your critical gaze
(Jean Franco, born in Morocco of Spanish stock, was an Income Tax Inspector and in his spare-time an International Soccer Referee for France. We often played tennis at the Tennis Club in Fresnes-94.)
©T.Wignesan 1992 April 21, 1992 - [from the collection: back to background material, 1993]
Copyright © T Wignesan