Fleeting Generations
I suppose you could call us old friends,
because we’ve listened to billions of drops of uncaring rain
drumming ceaselessly on these stubborn walls.
We’ve been arguing about how
the number of rainy nights have increased
for the last few decades at least;
due to ordinary humans or those huge buildings
dumping waste in waters,
releasing pollutants in airy currents…
Because countless generations of our species
have endured so many cold nights together
while resisting the urge to start shivering,
I suppose we’re the oldest chroniclers
of this street, where we’ve noticed
flocks of folks getting thinner, as
there’re more individuals than couples
rushing about for pointless tasks.
By the way, why can’t you instruct your
young ’uns to stop using my head
as their favourite perch?
Frosty Premonitions
He didn’t care too much for gold leaves, especially
as his coughing became worse when
churlish storms would swirl him crazy, and the
sickle moon would taunt his creativity through October
clouds. For he became stuck for words when the wind
blew them all too quickly before they could coalesce with
inky firmness. He dreaded the onset of the frosty
weather that gleefully helped stiffen poetic flow, busy fingers.
‘I wonder why the weather conspires, and punishes
not just me for my transgressions, but also my
judicious pen.’ Did he think so while pulling his thinning hair?
Note: this poem explored some aspects of my photographic collage artwork, Intermittent Choir.
Springing Forth
No I don’t want to paint trees.
Cherry trees require the same brush strokes,
repeated over and over again.
The menu for success is to make
every blossom different, and not the same,
just like nature produces them.
It doesn’t produce.
Blossoms just sprout forth with no effort on the tree’s part.
Perhaps you can’t see it, but its ongoing regular effort is there.
If I’m going to attempt it,
then it won’t be under my teacher’s strict surveillance.
Let’s give him a surprise.
Go away. I certainly can’t do it
with you breathing down my neck.
Golden Shovel: Especially When the October Wind
‘Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
(Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land).’
The full poem can be read here: https://allpoetry.com/Especially-When-The-October-Wind
‘The great Welsh forensic pathologist Bernard Knight examined the P.M. report and concluded that… death was clearly due to a severe lung infection, with extensive advanced bronchopneumonia.’
Source: https://www.walesartsreview.org/what-killed-dylan-thomas/
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