Best Mouldering Poems

Do not vainly look in those remote
Places,
That, once, were acquainted with a 
Small part of me;                          
Here I roamed beneath...

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Stood I there, that last day,
On an iron bridge...
An aqueduct by design,
Where, looking dreamily out over
The Ernes Lower Lough,
My compressed shadow 
Momentarily paused -
To contently recline:
Amidst coy Junes radiant beams 
of sweet benign!
All was stilled, all was hushed,
Save vast reed beds sided by the
Shallow hills...

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When I look on my life that's now half-spent,
     I sigh the loss of youth that's forever past,
wishing myself better Fortune's consent,
     love, friends, and wealth with naught to lose or waste, 
but for the mean expense...

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Those rarer men I once fondly 
knew...                             
Many dead now...
What remains of them they are so 
Few....

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across tree-lined yards
leaves dance in colorful frocks --
distant school bell chimes

through open windows
the scent of pumpkin spice drifts --
an orange moon rises 

under charcoal skies 
rain dampens mouldering leaves --
a lone snowflake falls


By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, August 29, 2012
for Autumn Splendor Contest (Russell Sivey)...

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The old house stands still.
Rot has set in.
A flying termite caught in the webs of a dead spider, sway to the shrill of a ceiling fan.
All things sway.
Dreams rise and suffocate in the mouldering mortars 
Falling on the adjacent tiled roof. 
They scream, laugh, make love, declare...

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In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies grow;
Their roots reach down to twine amongst the bones,
The mouldering bones.

Each skull in grinning disbelief voices 
Its eternal question, for what? And no answer comes,
No answer comes.

There are no lungs to find;
Long rotted from within, from gasping breaths...

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Our newest entrant, our newest nation, forged in fiery code
Bubbled like red hot lava from a net of connected phones.
This nascent nation, transcending any boundary road,
Passing ports of entry into our domestic pleasure zones.	
Is there no folly to consider here, no rampant beast?
Who, we ask,...

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Mental Illness
 


We are the last 
vestiage of the 
ostracized.  

We are the lepers 
of the moon who
walk among the 
unforgiving innocent
with luminous sores.

We are hieratic stones 
that mark a trail to divinity,
unaware of mediocrity. 

We are the nightmare 
and cuirass of your 
terminal...

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She loves me she loves me not...

Just my luck that when juiced a lad
din grammar school, aye own every
rhyme and reason tubby mad
every friggin time boyhood fingers
plucked petals off flowered daisy...

just as well, a relief and more than glad
tomb hiss out on doing the wild...

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Some are sparks

Some are the sparks from a Parliament bonfire,
That fly ever upwards to spin and whirl 
amongst the stars and then are extinguished,
falling as a fleck of ash to lie amongst many 
in a grey layer, undistinguished one from the other.

And there are a...

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We are all good 
Are made so
We are all evil
Tho’ we do not know,
‘Tis veiled fantasy
Cloaked between soul and the skin
For a self ignorant
Chasing good and the sin,
Against a triumph that defies us
Denies us a tranquil breath
And lingers upon the morose heads
Like slothful beasts in...

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… scattered jazz,
haunted gnarls of
octupi-night staggering
between semen-splinters of stars
pain-fornicating in
my collective gutter, my disheveled
cells oozing your
black and
softer gold
burning silence
in a heathen writhe between my ears
dancing on the cusp: my dead-zone ecstasy
defiling
corrupting and
seduction-raping the
industry of numbness,
toilet-scream from
between legs: slave of avoidance
whore of denial
death in a vacuum
naught...

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There is a beautiful ancient burial ground in the Ozark mountains that is the resting place for countless generations of my lineage. One of those places that completes a part of me that remains incomplete wherever else I might be. It is the place where...

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"To die.To sleep?Perchance to dream?"
There is but one we will know
If immortality is in life's scheme.
If mortality is the only show
Then will our bodies turn to dust
Mouldering in slow decay
Only in memory will we be discussed
And even reminiscence will pass away.

Hope or despair,survival or extinction
Will...

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