Poetry-Thing Thursday: Their Master the Pen

What of the flowers?
The birds and the bees?
They’re in the wind,
blown to the breeze.

And the desert and sun?
The rains and the sea?
All long behind us,
victims of thee.

How, you might ask.
I can’t quite be sure,
but I know one thing,
they’re long past mature.

They’re not quite expired
but ready to retire,
while new words and images
wait for their sire.

Their master the pen,
will mold them in time,
ink them into being,
with portents and rhyme.

But until then you’ll,
just have to wait,
save your words,
for all to appreciate.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: We’ve Had Words

We’ve had words,
most of which will never be remembered.
Ran with different herds,
that nonetheless vanished late September.

But all the same,
I felt sadness, isolation,
when your name,
appeared for death’s orientation.

Though I feel very little,
these days for those of the past,
I’ve never found acquittal,
for broken hearts at flags half-mast.

It was a lifetime ago,
for you especially now,
that I watched your storm blow,
but now you’ve taken your bow.

The lights have dimmed.
The stage is gone.
Your mascara thinned,
all now over yon.

Out of time and space and life,
a fire dimmed forever, ne’er to be bright,
but to also never feel strife,
nor fade without a fight.

Strangers, perhaps we were,
but I feel you’d say otherwise.
Even if I were a blur,
you’d never allow for lies.

So now we say goodbye.
Forevermore do we part,
and with a lone, final sigh,
I lock you away in my heart.