Poetry-Thing Thursday: Thunder and Ash

Thunder and ash.
Bronze and brass.
Scenes of a decrepit fire,
burning beneath city spires.

They came first for the village,
the women and men,
leaving the children,
as if already dead.

They took to the forests,
to make amends,
’til once more it came,
’til once more it reigned.

It took the eldest first.
Then each one thereafter.

‘Til one-by-one,
blackness came.
Swallowed them whole.
Ne’er to be seen again,
save by billowing thunder,
and ash ’pon the mountain.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Cosmic Re-Balance

Written in blood,
runic and carved,
the words of a prophet,
foretold of the Earth.

Of man’s rise and fall.
Of his towering ego.
Of human existence,
spurned on by libido.

It said, too,
one day he would end,
into darkness descend,
devoured by that,
which once birthed him.

Between one and the other,
was an epic of wonder,
of whimsy and intrigue,
betrayal and greed.

What more could one ask for,
from prophet or fortune,
but to blaze like a star,
rise like a mountain,
then sink again,
into ever present night,
from a reality that bore it,
into a long goodnight?

Nothing.
Nothing,
it’s said,
and so forever be it.
For if we must be tempered,
by darkness for greatness,
who are we to pick and choose?
No-one
for these are the whims,
of the cosmic re-balance.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Dead Seasons

Ice and snow.
Bitter cold.
What better time than winter,
to die alone and old?

Would you rather it were rains,
in a spring that breeds new life?
Or perhaps the cool breeze,
of a warm summer’s night.

If not, make it through autumn,
for it is the least of best times,
and let winter come take you;
Aged. Gray. Alone.

For those whom come and go too soon,
envy the choices you decry.
And those that find spring anew again,
wish they hadn’t; still had a friend.

But they don’t.
And they won’t.

So live life ’til it takes you.
Don’t hasten it unduly.
And in time,
do not, its ending, delay;
for there is but one.
And though at times,
both seem too much,
too few,
they aren’t.

For dead is gone.
Alive, is you.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Cracking Spade

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.