HEARING THINGS

I am a forest of bone cracking under the weight of days.

In the dark, I shift from lantern to blade.
Lonely as a moon.

We are hearts simmering at tables, worn  to ghosts,

Our mortality, a crumb - not even that.
We pack bags to go home.

In every loss, a phantom wanders, homeless,
Seeking what cannot be found.
Grief is no cure.

In my palm, a charnel of unborn dead, clamouring.
We wait for them in ransacked rooms.
Hold my hand.  

Death, the party guest, unmasks us all and offers wine. 
Memory’s footsteps slip through the hall.
A journey ended.

Time, the overseer, drops anchors into endings.
We carry our last breath with us.
Moored to mists.

My rib cage is a bell tower, shaken by its peal.
Feathered breath heralds a moan of ripping paper.
its final note.



Sculpture by Aatje Gronveldt

More of my poetry can be read on http://www.odyssey.com, http://www.chanticleer-press.com/, http://www.vivimusmag.com/poetry.html

 

 

IT WAS NOT A REVOLUTION

It was not a revolution.

We took away the king,

But left behind the throne. 

It was not a revolution.

We held a stranger's hand
And then we let it go.

It was not a revolution.

Our voices sang as one,
But we forgot the words

It was not a revolution.

We  gathered for our children,
But now they sleep in streets.

It was not a revolution.
God is on our side, we said,

But now we are alone.

It was not a revolution.

We opened up our  cage,
But found we could not fly. 

It was not a revolution.

We were a rolling tide,
But could not breach the wall.

It was not a revolution.

For our mothers’ lives, we said.
They’re weeping now for ours.

It was not a revolution.

We wanted bread for all,
But now we fight for crumbs.

It was not a revolution.
We marched to beating drums.
There is  thunder overhead.

More of my poetry can be read on http://www.odyssey.com, http://www.chanticleer-press.com/, http://www.vivimusmag.com/poetry.html