Tomorrow looms like no other,
each year no less than before,
bringing back pain of separation.
Doctors could not explain,
my body never complained,
until that day when the pregnancy ended.
No ritual brought closure.
No support came from those knowing not what to say.
My husband seemed confused.
Tomorrow I alone will grieve,
loving the child I never knew.
An empty bedroom with closed door—
the only monument.
Partially decorated, undusted,
preserving vestiges of hope.
My husband will leave in the morning,
his daily routine unbroken.
Strangers will live in our house
until the season passes.
Categories:
undusted, anniversary, child, death, grief,
Form: Free verse
The shelves of your forehead wrinkles
are still undusted. I scrub them clean with hot tears,
carefully placing selected stories
on the continuum between you and me.
I twine our joint years around your neck,
covering you with Wisteria flowers.
In that royal coat I make you believe
there are no blue and red granules
in our blood.
(This poem is from Eleni's pamphlet Autumn Dedications, 2015)
Categories:
undusted, death of a friend,
Form: Free verse
Let It Breathe
Sweet kiss of sun and passion’s soil
wrapped in twisted lover’s tryst
love’s essence captured in a moment
blessed by sea-scent moistened mist
cradled in long arms of family
hidden from frail season’s view
undusted days of aging darkness
ancient hope of purplish blue
wisdom clear of sediment
locked in dry-corked mystery
sipped, served, and savored sparingly
lingering hint of history.
John G. Lawless
8/13/2015
submitted – a wine connoisseur – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Chase Trevi
Categories:
undusted, age, family, metaphor, wisdom,
Form: Verse
The Library (Words to the Wise)
Shhhhh! No talking strictly enforced!
Most folks abide, except children, of course
And those who can’t read, don’t care, or don’t want
Goof off in the corners, or sneeze
As sharp, darting eyes of librarians haunt
Do you think you can do as you please?
The wisdom of giants exudes from the walls
Words that amaze, mesmerize, and enthrall
Lie untouched, undusted, forgot, and unseen
For racks of harlequin romance
Replaced in small minds by pulp magazines,
The classics have lost their last chance
Mindless amusement is what the world craves
Poe and Lord Byron must cringe in their graves
Dickens and Tolstoy and Steinbeck don’t matter
Now Paris and Brittany rule
All lost in celebrity gossip and chatter
The true kings and queens look the fool
But one in a thousand sees past all the fluff
They pass by the newspaper comics and stuff
To linger and learn from some eloquent master
Igniting a dazzling epiphany
A small step for culture to detour disaster
And rise above kitsch and banality.
Categories:
undusted, education, on writing and
Form: I do not know?