'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.' Kurt Vonnegut

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Love in the Time of Inclemency

photo credit: ecstaticist via photopin cc


They said my love,
or manner of loving
as the wolf loves the moon
in late autumn,
was wasteful,
inappropriate even, for the times.
These times, I mean,
where love of self
outweighs love of other,
and my manner of loving you
seems out of season,
a strawberry ripening
in winter-fields
dusted with white,
nourished on grey.

If my love should prove
too hostile, demanding
a response beyond lip service
to an out-dated emotion,
as the wind blowing
in the high pines
takes its toll on structure,
stripping the weakened and the dead
from the bough,
then never let it be said
I cannot find my way
in the world,
a world without you.

I should love to be the one
who loves you always
this side of the grave,
the one you return to always
in inclement weather
but do not ask me
to love you any less
than wholly, and my dear,
do not yourself return,
to lay your hand in mine
as a wave upon my shore
unless you love me
beyond self
beyond price.


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For Sunday Mini-Challenge ~ In Other Words in The Imaginary Garden.
Shared with Poetry Pantry

Sunday, November 9, 2014

The Eleventh

stokesentinel.co.uk
(Fair Use)



At the eleventh hour, the crawl
through interminable mud had become
the only method of progress for man;
this pinnacle moment of his evolution
saw him on his belly, inhaling the blood
of his enemy or digging his way
from the collapsed birth-canal of a rotten womb.

On the eleventh day, man bore witness
to the fall through air of his aspirations
for social advancement: a vertical spin,
the whine of a stalling engine echoing
through the airy halls of his endeavour
as the ground rushed up to claim
another cadaver, another loss of higher purpose.

And the eleventh month returned
to shattered woodlands and cratered hills,
bringing with it a dismal rain;
in retreat, or triumph, man turned for home
with his shredded patriotism as an alibi
for truth, and a century to tally the fallen
with a poppy for each head, and call it our history.


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At the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, The Two Minute Silence is observed on Armistice Day, the day which marks the end of the First World War.