Posts Tagged ‘death’


Three

by MELISSA COOK

I can’t find you anymore
and there’s a landslide in there.
Our feet don’t touch the runway and
I never thought I’d say this but I miss
the three-hour plane rides between you
and home. I was a coffee drinker back
then, addicted to caffeine and your
fingertips. An amateur artist on flights
drawing compasses with hearts and
poems. I was the first blind mouse of
three, and I knew your culture loved
threes, three graces, three gorgons,
three furies. Signs of unity and trinity
but we lost these. You’ve been
consuming my metaphors lately and
I’m not sure when it happened but I
can see the Greek alphabet hand-drawn
on my bones. You are a skeleton
without a resting place and
I can’t find you anymore.

Unanderra

by MELISSA COOK

When death took you, you refused
to go quietly. Sirens echoed in the pit
of your stomach and poetry written
about you crumbled like your history
and architecture. We don’t see much of
your sunshine anymore;
we dig your grave and attend
your funeral but those around you
rarely mourn you. We have swallowed
everything you once were, the paradise
of our Grandfathers and now we
like no man who ever stood before you,
find solace in your decay.

There’s no peace here anymore, only
shopping trolleys in creeks, but to you
I give a bouquet of everything you
once were, the rainforest will
nip at your corners and shells
and bones will no longer hold you.
You will be filled with nature and
all it’s splendour. I will colour your skin
like your founders and with
flora and fauna I will no longer
grieve but rather
celebrate your life.

Unanderra = My hometown

Obituaries

by MELISSA COOK

I have written about loss like
my body is tomb for cupid arrows
plucked from my ancestors.
Small-scripted obituaries of
every lover onto my skin

erased and
repeated.

My body is a mausoleum,
designed by a musician and
redesigned by an artist,

and if you asked one to describe
me he’d say I was the scent
of aging metal on his ring finger
and the numerals on his bones.

And I often wonder how he felt
when he made the music I write to,

when did he begin his grieving?
why were his instrumentals about me?
I know a lot of women would find that
romantic, but he, he used his titles
as a branding,

Why did I barter hips for love?
When did he know the “time had
passed for us”?

When did I start asking so many
questions?

Probably when my poetry began to
reflect his dishonesty. He knew I
would find absence in his
creativity.

The last time I saw you, you
fed me at the airport, and I told you it
was the last time you would see me.

That was
two and a half years ago.

Labyrinthine

by BRIANNA ROSE BURTON

The moon’s deathly grip
challenges the hue,
its dew embellishes languor,
the heart, a labyrinthine lilt.

Yet I, ineffable, incipient at my
longing to live, live not long.

You and I are a moiety,
like picnics and ants;
one never truly lives
without the other.

As you or I.

The sky is redolent,
a sempiternal tunnel that all but
twists and winds,
the wind, a susurrus melody,
yet, too, shall be eternal.

As you and I.

But as death grasps and pulls
into itself the spirits source,
it, too, shall live forever,
its body woebegone beneath the dirt.

As you and I.

The Lifesong Maze

by BRIANNA ROSE BURTON

Let me tell you
where the life song goes,
to a valley where its beauty grows,
to a mountain where its soft wind blows,
the journeyer who sweet path always take,
along the hills by music do awake.

And let me show you
where the life song plays,
everywhere that’s anywhere away,
where sing it softly of Earth’s rendering face,
or grip the arms of Death’s unaged embrace,
as never it shall die amidst the air,
where always you can find its shelter there.

Now let me sing for you
the life song in itself,
a melody that heart in beauty oft awake,
and often out of spite a lover make,
to fill the paths of arrogance with grace,
and all around the earth of vile erase,
to sing a tune none other can replace;
“the lifesong maze.”

Beneath the Forgotten Roses

by ANTHONY HAYES

As I walk through the grey mist of night
I come across a bed of roses,
brittle with a dark essence.

Each one slowly crumbling to the rough earth,
below, as I look up I see
an old grey stone.

I lift my frost bitten hands and wipe away
the years of decay; my eyes open wide
to a small engravement –

R.I.P

Was killed by hanging for the murder of
thirty four women on 2 August 1912

Here lies Dave Thompson Jr.

As I read the name, my life flashes before
my eyes; it’s been one hundred years
since I killed them.

Tomorrow my grave will be gone,

but no one will ever forget the horror,
that lives beneath
the forgotten roses

Grave

by BRIANNA ROSE BURTON

Death would be adorned
if not knowing it comes
but once;

once to the prepaid grave
no one will visit.

Death would be quick
as heartbreak;
each nerve pulsating under
the ripping of each severed
heartstring,

each pain stands electrified,
intensified,
still, death would be quick.

The shapeless form Death
forms itself into,
cloud-clad upon the sea,
the red one the moon does oft
but softly trickle through,

the moon that moves its footsteps
across the ocean’s blue,
because it, too, would grieve…

But death is quick.

So often quick
to trick, to cheat into;
Death has but eyes
that see life’s thread
be vainly cut through

by severed hands that work
the devil’s knot, too loose,
but Death would intercept,
its spying eyes and grin,
unsparingly unseen,
for Death is quick.

And none would live to tell,
rise up from graven hell,
dig up the roots to find earth’s
warmth above the grave,
for Death would intercept,
because it, too, can only come
but once.

Cerelia

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

devoid of freshness,
a vague scent of life is diffused
in the air.

of mossy veins
entwined,
around her thigh
and morel mushrooms strewn
around her hair,

hushed forest would bow low
once she walks by.

the foliage would soon breed, then crawl
out from the undersides
of her shimmering
belly.

her clothes shall tear and rot
yet, her skin will remain,
speckled, with barest

trace of Autumn.

Copyright (C) 2012 by EvanescentMoon

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