Tag: Hope

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Lines in Space

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Sit with me a moment, child,
for my bones are old and numb,
my gums at-rot from rum,
and my dreams are all long gone.

Sit with me and listen,
for I’ve seen the rising sun,
felt the barrels of life’s gun,
and tallied my last sum.

Lean close and let me whisper,
my tale’s a fading ember,
born of blood and timber,
that’s uttered in a whimper,

For you see it is no secret,
that magick, love, and regret,
come in equal measure,
leave one a little lesser.

But at our end we’re equal,
evened by death’s steeple,
no matter our home-people.
we live and die, good or evil.

So sit with me a moment, child,
and prepare to take my place,
for my time has come and gone,
leaving only lines in space.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Due Alas

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Cold wind blows,
over ice-trapped crests.
The waves don’t crash,
for they too are frozen,
immobile,
immutable.

Sun sinks low.
Invisible behind gray skies.
No colors shift:
neither from red to orange,
nor blue to black.
There is,
only gray.

There is no warm.
No cold.
Only frigid.
And blistering.
The latter’s nowhere to be found,
in a season of the former.

Still we wish,
hope and dream,
of warmer days,
and sights unseen,
but they never come,
and though avast,
we seek them out,
with due alas.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Dead Seasons

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

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: Fertile Mind, Poor Design

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

A fertile mind,
in poor design,
is an ancient puzzle,
a riddle, divine,
called forth from,
the annals of time.

What greatness hath,
madness wrought,
when disguised as sanity,
a need, less fraught?
If only pain and trauma
were retroactively fought.

Were history’s madness,
to be erased,
we’d know of man’s impotence,
his potential for grace,
whether in the midst of Earth,
or the boundlessness of Space.

Flee not from madness,
nor take it with fear.
Examine it closely.
Examine it here;
on pages of ink and paper,
on the faces of those standing near.