“Watchful Flies”

flyDoris’ day terribly ends. Trace, her love of many years, abandons her.  Sleep frustrates the tormented woman. Finally, her convoluted dreams soothe the hurt in Doris’ heart. Upon its walls, a strange poem offers peace:

 

 

Where go I
to find a place,
someplace, I need
to hide

What must I do
to hide my face
dare I, my faceless
pride

A quiet peaceful
loneliness, you
seek me, go away

They  hurt me so
my painful knees, I
broke them yesterday

This plate of food,
how do I eat, its taste
I cannot stand

My throat a web
of spider claws, I
feel its clammy hands

Upon a tomb my
name I read, written
by my fears

A dusty grotesque Eulogy
of wretched morbid
tears

Turn from me,
oh, do not stay, leave
me to my thoughts

To understand this
mind in me and why
to me it talks

The  warmth of you
I cannot feel
your searing cold
I dread

Dare risk I
the bold in you, melt,
should I instead

Inside my heart a
darkness looms, dare
I love you so

A tapestry of watchful flies
warning, “No,”
“please, no!”

The fate of love never risk
its ending is foretold;
watchful flies never bate,
thy youth is much too old.

Copyright © 2014 Delbert H. Rhodes

Why Winter

winter-clip-art-royalty-free-winter-clipart-illustration-93476

Windows reflect a gloomy sky. Dreary light stains the panes with gray mustard. Clouds cluster as smoky spiders awaiting juicy treats.

In the trees, leaves brown as the season changes, and Tony frets because he hates winter; he hates cold.

His favorite seasons are spring and autumn; Tony cares nothing of the remaining months, mostly wishing that they would disappear, especially the humid sticky months of summer.

His youth insulated the lad from winter’s wrath; he even enjoyed sledding, and ice skating and other things that his friends and he would do.

These days Tony fondly remembers excitement, and as much as he promises himself, rarely would he venture out to play; those days are long gone. Always, tomorrow, maybe. Fantastically, the wishful man draws lines in the sands daring winter to cross. Naturally, folly is a labyrinth of fools, and the path to “fool school” is unattractive, perilous. The inquisitive man ponders (just) one simple question:

Why Winter

Slowly, as winds chill the trees,
an icy tail sweeps the skies.

Trees stiffen as frigid fingers stab
and pierce crusty barks.

Dank puke sprays the lands as
swelling clouds slap high fives.
Coursing, birds fly inside the misery.

Everything ripe for the picking;
summer evolves from plush greenery
to ice, snow and muddy plaque.

The air grows colder.

I cannot help but wonder; why winter
smiles with invasive discomforts,
unwanted perils and devastation,
with her cold and frozen face.

Why is she wantonly brutal.
Why must we surrender.
Why not simply go away.
Why? She never listens.

A cool sun lights the sky;
tree limbs supplicate as apples dangle.
A cringing canvas displays the fruits
as cold candy reds.

Then a bird trills, I languish inside
its harmonies; I stir its chromatic fire.
Does the creature wary of winter.

Cold hurts me.

Mornings, I discipline my bed;
“How dare you push me out!”
Mocking the day,
I wish for better times.

I wish for spring.

Copyright ©2014 Delbert H. Rhodes