Category: Poetry-Thing Thursday

Anything rhythmically or structurally varied from general fiction.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: White Wolf, White Wolf

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

White Wolf, White Wolf
the path is calling you, Wolf.
The Swallow is gone.
The winter’s to come,
and love’s violet eyes,
remain cold and numb.

White Wolf, White Wolf,
with silver and steel, dear Wolf.
The scars that you bear
are more than skin-deep,
and the path is aligned,
with frost-borne keeps.

White Wolf, White Wolf,
wraiths come today, my Wolf.
Fight for your love,
or freeze in new loss,
for the frost comes unbidden,
like it or not.

White Wolf, White Wolf,
of lands long gone and lost.
Find comfort in violet eyes,
raven hair,
black and white cloth
for the Swallow is flying,
and you’ve no choice but to watch.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Cracking Spade

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The rumble of a diesel idle,
sounds through a still,
and dead-quiet night.
Elsewhere,
its echoes are drowned,
in the crack of an earth-splitting spade.

Day-old death,
lingers long after diesel leaves.
Still the spade cracks,
forming the shallow grave,
meant to entomb a truth,
no-one will know exists.

Somewhere, close-by,
scavengers have awoken.
Called by promise of decay,
they follow their noses to the sound.

In the shadows they linger.
Unbidden. Unseen.
E’er circling, e’er waiting,
to strike.
More and more,
accustomed to the spade.

Going unheard,
as they chance closer looks,
hidden by the moonless sky,
they are, as if, non-existent.

When at last the spade pauses,
it has long been too late.
The wretches are in place,
breath stinging the air.

The spade rises,
but cracks no more.
Rises in place.

Then falls,
bearing witness,
to yet another,
fading cry.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Traditions Defied

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

I have always,
gone against the grain–
Defied traditions–
had only myself to blame.

For making things harder,
on me and myself,
it’s a curse some say
but I’m not one to barter.

‘Cause after all,
anything worth doing,
is worth doing right,
and I’m doing it–
all night;
before each day’s fight.

I walk without rhythm,
still attract the worm.
Shai Hulud devours me,
in shadow or form.

So my eternal question;
to be or not to be?
But I’ve never been much for Shakespeare,
so I just keep on for another year.

Or even just a minute, you see,
with all traditions defied,
while just trying to be me.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: My Box

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

I haven’t left my box,
much at all this year.
Some say it’s a bad thing,
that I live in constant fear.

But the truth is,
my box is really quite large,
when my imagination descends,
and it takes charge.

Some people say that,
my box’s walls are uncouth.
I disagree,
but ’cause I know the truth:

That boxes,
ones both bigs and smalls,
are around us all each day,
most with invisible walls.

I like my box and keep it cool,
or in the winter cozy and warm.
But some still say my box,
does me lots of harm.

But I don’t believe it,
and I think I know why;
just between you and me,
my box has better views of the sky.

And ones of the beyond if I choose,
past the stars and the moon,
the sun and solar system,
to places so far, I can’t return soon.

Cause its out there I’m soaring,
while my hands remain here, writing.
And though my mind’s in the clouds,
it’s my box that keeps me here, safe

from fighting–
from crying,
from sighing,
or even white-lying.
‘Cause my box is like yours,
but different,
for it is ever,
adventure-supplying.