options…

so
it ‘s
outside
your door
waiting for you
to
open wide
and let
the new year in
but
you hesitate
what if
the new year
shackles you
to your old fears
and
your old
despairs
what if
if you don’t
open the door
will you die
or flow into
the abyss
or maybe
purgatory
where you’ll
get out for
good behavior
maybe
just maybe
it really
doesn’t
matter
what
you
do

i was just wondering….

do souls
come in different
sizes
i mean
i’ve heard that
they grow
so it must be so
is that why
there’s soul food
and
what happens
to little souls
the ones that
never get
a chance
to grow up
the ones still pure
unstained by life
are they recycled
or
just thrown away
into some cosmic
dust bin
or
used as landfill
for the abyss
maybe
they just fall
as snow
the collective
frozen tears
shed
at summer’s
end

unsolicited denial…

A Classic Art Challenge:  Just as I had recovered from my last challenge with Jade, a new writing adventure has been embarked upon..Jade has sent me five paintings which are to serve as the prompts for this challenge.  Since I substituted an extra Philosophy course for Art Appreciation, this may prove to be far more difficult for me than the previous challenges.  However, I have accepted her challenge and managed to find five paintings to send her in return.  We hope you enjoy our poetry.

 

The Disquieting Muses (1918) by Giorgio De Chirico

my muse
grasps my hand
pulling me
away from the plaza
saying
these muses
are not of the nine
we must leave
before we lose our song
for they are the spirits
of the lost souls
who stared into the abyss
they were born
long before time began
before men counted
their fleeting moments
on this earth
given form again by the drums of war
and the insatiable greed of men
they have returned
to claim their place
among us
as we turned
to leave
one of the muses spoke
saying
here is your
holy roman empire
an empty plaza
filled with muses
that inspire
the nothingness of the abyss
here your glowing expectations
are mere embers
lying outside
the gates of hades
your change-the-world attitude
has become quiet acceptance
but
before I could hear more
my muse had pulled
me safely
into my dreams

 

seeing off a child…

can you hear her voice now
as she whispers her thoughts
on this still night
breathing softly into the wind
words only a poet can hear
words written so long ago
that even the night has forgotten
its rhyme
lost somewhere in time
as the moon caresses the earth
with its frosty touch
as if placing a child in bed
a bed that shall hold her forever
without pain or fear
nor shall there be dreams
no moon shining brightly
just a lowered head
into the abyss

Poem inspired by http://wocview.wordpress.com/2010/04/07/mom-beats-girl-3-to-death-for-poem-failure/