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the crow calls
his mournful dirge
once twice thrice

early this morning
when the sky is  still
grey twilight
and his song of sadness
seeps in past the window frame,
to alight in my heart


today, you
would have been
fifty five...
and there was to be
a massive party
fifty five a glorious age
you said you were going
to retire.... see the world
but i could not see that
you who loved her job so....

but all of that,
immaterial now.
it is just past six months
since you died...
lung cancer...
metatasized to the brain
****** filthy cigarettes

i will raise a glass to you
my friend.....
probably more than one
some in joy and some in tears....

and the crow calls
again and again.....
Who am I?
I'm a piece of work.
A block of marble,
A chip of rock.
A driftwood face,
Waiting near a dock.
A song without refrain,
You won't sing again.
A pattern, pinned for sewing,
A garment good for stowing.
A man in queue,
Looking back at you.
A canvas smeared in gesso,
Leaning near a frame.
A sonnet missing
A rhyming couplet,
An octave and a sestet.
I am
A work in progress
For Joe's request.
Many brave warriors
            dared to scale it
         some succeeded.
   Mountain men were
challenged to climb it
                    a few fell
         some persevered.
the townspeople gazed
    at it from the village
                           in awe
               
                
                But only you                 jumped.
I
still hear
voices
but now
we all get along.
the saddest thing
i've ever seen
is the stillness of windmills
 Sep 2014 Spencer Dennison
TrAceY
On a payphone in Swift Current I am calling you
on a road leading nowhere the miles stretch before me
like burning crosses telephone wires so hot
they send sparks flying through the sky
no sun shines here but my skin feels...thought you'd want
to know about the man who gave me this cigarette he tried
to buy my love with smoky dreams do you understand? my need
my addiction I am striking a match S.O.S. to your heart

The big green sign says I am only three hundred miles shy
of holding you still I had to call say hello/goodbye
and somewhere in between I miss you perhaps
my love will remain in this land endless towers of wheat
desolate and beautiful
One of my first poems. It won a contest and it will always be one of my faves:)
This sadness, this numb
It is not poetic.
I cannot write about galaxy ridden veins
or fire seared eyes

This sadness, this emptiness
It is not beautiful
There will be no heroic sweeping away of broken princesses by
princes with cigarette clenched teeth
or ***** laced lips

This sadness, this gut-wrenching pain
Will not be daises in Marlboro boxes
It can't be unraveled threads sewed back
by an infinite but dysfunctional love

No, no.

This sadness isn't any of that.

This sadness, it's raw
It hurts to look at but it's torture to bear
People look away from this type of sadness
Because it sure as hell ain't pretty.
But what it is is real
This is the sadness that, once moved past, is never forgotten

It's worn like armor in battle
Like a coat of arms

This sadness makes you a **soldier
A lovely fellow poet
did comment
about how an
ignorant soul had nerve
to complain that
they’d no longer read
the poet’s words anymore,
for the poet
made them
“FEEL...SOMETHING”.

Really genius?!
Imagine that!

So, a much needed
heads up...

ANYTHING you read,
be it Poetry,
Stories,
News articles,
and even
the Lyrics of a song
may cause you to
‘think’ and ‘FEEL’...
something.

Alas, such is the
price of Poetry
and the pouring out
of personal views
or fiction
onto parchment.

Poetry may not be
YOUR particular cup of tea,
and that’s ok...

I certainly couldn’t see
me sitting
  to watch a long,
drawn out sports event...
but that’s just me.

If you, poor soul,
cannot handle the
‘feelings’
inspired by Poetry,

please, just close
your laptop,
and walk away,
so, we poets,
can resume our
ink-spawned
Revery.


-by Mercurychyld
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