Linda

POETRY IS WHAT THE SOULS OF THE ANCIENTS SPEAK TO THOSE STILL SEEKING WHAT IS MOST BEAUTIFUL IN THE WORLD. FROM: LINDA

Friday, June 30, 2023

 











Open Spaces


It feels great

to be out from under

rolling carpets of steel and stone.

I’m standing with outlying anonymity,

breathing in the glory of solitude.

Enjoying the simple subtraction 

of so much weight from shoulders.


It’s so easy to forestall deep sorrow here

while feeling the deepening rumble

of a wet, thunderous afternoon

within my chest.

The wind battering from all sides,

turning my hair like the Medusa,

as I wait for the open spaces,

and the nighttime canvas of midnight blue

to be painted across the sky.














Friday, June 23, 2023

 










The Swiftness of Time




The ravaged face,

Belies a younger life,

Enlivened with friendship,

Suitors constant at the door.


Time, time, time,

Slow down.


The memory gaps,

Deny 90 years

Of happy, energetic activity.

A mind where today

Relevant history lays imprisoned.


Time, time, time,

Slow down.


Trapped inside hunched backs,

Toothless mouths,

And thin-haired pates,

They long to remind us of what really matters

Before time deludes us also.


Time, time, time,

Slow down.


We blame the old for hearing loss,

Yet we are the ones who stop listening.

They call to us, 

Their children and such.

Hasty in our dealings,

Our clamorous world 

Drowns them out.


Time, time, time,

Slow down.


Our chronology is set,

Our own annals to be

Recited to indifferent ears

If we do not learn,

Vita Brevis.


Monday, June 5, 2023

 


Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem in the June issue.


https://www.arielchart.com/2023/06/a-tired-world.html









A Tired World

 

 As towns become compressed,

and continue to build upon ruins of drama,

the wild beasts

who examine life with their hard edge,

the least sentimental among us,

with warring as their superpower,

choose to scorch the land where blood lies. 

 

Blasts and threats

proclaim what we deal with,

wearily, with worn-out hearts,

while solicitors storm

and subalterns rave.

 

And we behave as stone effigies, 

of all souls’ despair,

that can only stand and watch,

figurines who weep tears 

as lyrics of the times.

 

We will recover from the blows

only if we can awaken to new images 

of what can happen in the world,

and exert our will.