Rosebush, thin

bowed head, she is 
an old woman sinking to herself:  
thorns, stems, hips, perfume-
her bony fingers grasp
tight the last brown-burnt leaf

the soil is hard
stone-bed, mulched  
with twigs & pitted-black petals
milk-dust snow is a knife 
paring her delicate neck

the carbon air thins
hour by hour
knotting each pulse to static 
until only the roots
remain, meager as beggar's cup

My roses during springtime

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Make the abstract concrete ~  Hosted by Marina ~

I am writing less these days because I have to study for my upcoming exams ~  Thanks for dropping by ~

I search for myself
not
among the fallen leaves
black
bruised on rain-silted path

But
in stillness of afternoon sun
yellowing
the field, a river serene
sloped
to all echoes of passing birds

Here,
death is the smell of wood
here
earth is red nest, spaded deep with
fossils

Grant me my day
bending
to sip water from the sky
rocks
grass, sleeping trees, depths of
myself



Title inspired by Salvatore Quasimodo (in part):

Grant Me My Day

(Dammi il mio giorno)

Grant me my day;
so I might yet search myself

for some dormant face of the years

that a hollow of water

returns in its transparency

and weep for love of myself.



Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday's Mini-challenge:    Salvatore Quasimodo and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

The dead man's journal

Grace @ Everyday Amazing

The dead man sits on wooden bench, rained with fallen leaves.
He marvels how sky light ripples the leaves
to cantaloupe gold, to dusky orange, to flaming red.
How the colors speak to him:
music interlude, flare of sunset, smell of overripe fruits-
Today, right now
pierces his numbed bones
as if his skin is made of a thousand dragonfly wings.

He gets a small jar to capture the air & scent of autumn.
He wants to slice & label 
Today, right now
With BIG, BOLD letters.
But the night wind is faster
sweeping leaves to decay & rot, 
wrapping them with glaze of first snowdrop-

Even now
time does not stop nor linger
Even though tomorrow means nothing
to the dead man now  
He feels the weight of his feet, moving as caterpillar
during last of summer nights:   voracious, hungry 
for every leaf, for every color shading the grass

He pens in his journal:  
Today I am hungry
and I have never felt so alive




Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - We are getting inspiration from The Book of Dead Man by Marvin Bell ~  Thanks for the visit ~

Nightingale

By Fire Painter, Steve Spazuk

To fire painter

Draw me out of flames

Smoke streaking the air

Where there is darkness

Let your feather brush silvers

From out of soot & toxic air

Move your hand 

Etching my face, bones

To life until I am a bird

Singing at night 

Free of poisoned chemicals

Warbling of joy

To gentle moon

Note:  Steve Spazuk works are a reaction to the heavy use of pesticides in North America and the consequential poisoning of insect-eating birds.

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - 55 Words - Hosted by MamaZen

And Susie's Prompt:   Nightingale 

Shared with Poets United