Poem #5


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Melancholia

The dawn shines like a new penny on black asphalt,

She drops her paisley scarf over the day to protect her eyes,

Still, the light struggles to burn through,

But she’s unprepared to dismiss the quiet discontent flowing through her veins,

She disguises the malaise from others with dark shades and a tilted smile,

Silently enduring the tainted warmth conceals the pain produced,

The thorned crown belongs to her and it isn’t to be shared.

Poem #4

man s hand in shallow focus and grayscale photography
Photo by lalesh aldarwish on Pexels.com

 

The Artist’s Hands

Hands of brawn stroke whispers on the canvas exposing the artist

His story skillfully written in masterful hues

Tones sing  lyrics of the conductor revealing his symphony

Genius before us conjuring creation from his hands.

Poem #3

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Mothers and Daughters

I wake to the ticking of the clock on mother’s face.
The unheard, yet perceived, ticking calls out to me –
Get up, get moving, don’t stop,
Listen to the clock.
Tick-tock
Tick-tock
Tick-tock

Mother’s clock at half past eleven
Beckons me without speaking,
Go tend the children,
Go feed the flock,
Listen to the clock.
Tick-tock
Tick-tock
Tick-tock

Once she tended children
And she fed the flock.
I wonder now, is this my duty?
Is this my destiny?
I listen to the clock.
Tick-tock
Tick-tock
Tick-tock

The ceaseless ticking of the clock –
Is it ticking from her face or mine?
Where is her Jesus – her savior – who hides in the clock?
Can he slow the ticking?
Can he slow the clock?
Tick-tock
Tick-tock
Tick-tock

I leave the questions in my bed
And move to mother’s room.
Wrinkled frailness rest amidst well-worn sheets.
For now, I’ll forget the children,
I’ll forget the flock.
I silently give my mother what comfort I can,
I toil to wind her clock, because –
This is my duty,
This is my destiny.

 

 

 

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