Friday, April 12, 2019

BIRDSONG



Dawn breaks;
Outside, it has snowed.

The air feels very still,
like a rainy day funeral.

I seek a shawl of wool.
The house is indifferent,
as it always is.

I am home,
yet, it is unfamiliar, herein.

It is ghostly quiet,
as if time has ceased to spin.

Methinks I feel a breeze,
from somewhere up above.

Then so weakly,
I hear hushed voices;
strangely distant and meekly,
as if from an ancient mist.

Gentle whispers;
Of mourning doves,
uttering soft declarations and
coos of love.

Lo, I cannot help but wonder,
from where,
Oh, where do you find reprieve?

I think of you,
and consider me.

Steeped in hopeful notions,
so dark are my emotions,
with no audience to receive.

All that we communicate
seems void of substance,
as of late.

We teeter on this edge,
swaying seesaw,
like the mourning doves
exchanging coos,
from tree to hedge.

They profess their love
unconditionally,
with urgency that seems
as if their exchange is taboo.

Yet, there exists an element
of voice strings taught
as if living a long lament.

They cling to branches and vine;
through wind and stormy skies;
Constant, unperturbed,
their birdsong,
remains undisturbed.

I admire mourning doves,
Singing songs of love so true.

I consider me,
and think of you.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.

Monday, April 8, 2019

ARMCHAIR PHILOSOPHY



All in retrospect,
And, all to clearly I see
I suffered through years of
your armchair philosophy.

Me, casting circles,
and you, chasing Saints.
I grew so sick of your constant piety,
and you, of my silent transmissions;
For every time, I'd speak my mind,
I was wrong, muted or translated.

You accused me of not feeling
That was the problem, sir.
There was no his or her.

I held it all in,
Everything that I was feeling
Until all was exposed
Then you recognized,
That my feelings ran deeper
than you ever knew.

It was a pivotal moment,
that left us emotionally black and blue.

Suddenly, you were impressed!
With my determination
and my obvious mutation.
I wasn't the changeling you wanted me to be.
I was never a chameleon;
for I always wore my heart on my sleeve,
Wore it plainly for all to see.

Somewhere at the breaking point,
At zero saturation,
You saw the real me.
But that was your demise,
It was your fatality.
Because it was all too late,
Too late to see,
I didn't need your Saints
or your armchair philosophy.

© Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved.

Saturday, April 6, 2019

VENUS SLEEPS


He gazes at his Venus,
the statue of his silent saint;
Through a water stained window
and the cold of a lingering winter.

The Boreal wind blows and blows;
Branches break,
crack and splinter,
and ground frost pervades and permeates.

Through summer's dog days,
when the fire of the sun
burns and blisters,

He waits.

Eternally mesmerized
by marbled eyes,
where no light has ever shown.

He longs to touch, one last time
the skin now captured in stone.

Half-blind inside his tormented mind;
and possessed with a cerebral notion,
that those lips will softly whisper
one word yet spoken.

He laments,
He longs for one last kiss,
from the soft lips who hold their
secrets, postscript.

Enraptured with macabre devotion;
Sitting at the foot of her mossy crypt.

Obsessed like a soulless, spinning spider;
lying motionless in wait,
to inject it's sweet, tainted poison
onto it's victims lips.

Yet all the while,
She gives naught a smile
as she stares into the abyss.

Gazing beyond Heaven,
and past the great ivory gates.

She wears a gown of verdant frosting,
sprinkled with daisies
and Queen Anne's Lace.

Slumbering silently beneath,
where flames lick her feet.

Venus sleeps.

© Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Photo credit: Pinterest, Roland Krawulsky | Art of the Dark

2017 Comments:

"This is very enjoyable; the idea of cold marble has a sort of de-humanising effect on the senses and you have captured this by making it so wistful and poignant." -Write Out Loud
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"Wow - I like this - a lot - beautiful imagery x" -Write Out Loud
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"Sitting at the foot of her mossy crypt." Oh I say!"" -Write Out Loud
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"She wears a gown of verdant frosting, sprinkled with daisies" Thats a rather lovely image, though sad.  I have read this several times now and it reveals more on each reading. Although it refers to death and loss it also hits a note of unrequited love. Which in itself is like dying, but slowly. I did enjoy it, thanks."  -WriteOutLoud