Sunday, February 25, 2007

The Dying Past

Let go now, in grief
Or joy, with a hearty toast
Proposed to the past
As a lost autumn leaf
Floats like a scarlet ghost,
A forgotten outcast

She flies so aimlessly
Swirling in, about, round and out
Inhaling every last
Scent restlessly
Before fades, their fragrant shouts
And dies, the past

She once was young
Evoking jealousy like the belle of counties
With radiant green
Now sapless flies among
Forgotten homeless memories
Weathered of her sheen

Gently does she descend
To melt into earth as brown as her
Shelving every last
Precious fragment
In the mind’s depths; only a blur
Good bye, oh past!


when language like bubbling streams flow

when words are laid down to fit like lovers' hands

when you feel the essence of the poet from within

when swirling thoughts are caught in the net of rhythm

when images reel as you read

when pen and paper create a symphony

then, it is poetry