She stoops, stopping
to observe the mackerel catchers
feet planted firm – float fishing
upon the rocks.
Loathed to see them vertical
squirming silver backed
against the sky’s
Their end, the fisherman’s
bread and butter laid out
neatly for tea.
Poppy October 22st 2016 ~xx~
female, female poet, fisherman, hooked, mackeral, man, poet, Poetry, rocks, sky, woman
Oct · 22
We don’t know yet
that you are dying – when it arrives
embracing me lost, I shall take this place
deeper to me bending our bodies
into day and night.
Sleep shall leave me shallow, remote
in it’s hum of peace-less antidotes.
Décor of early mornings
stirs the reminders – my fingers
holding back the clock
until that final tick tock, foretelling
the ending of our summers concluding
from that final letting go
– then you always
sleeping with your cold eyes shut…
Sometimes I cry
for there are days when this
seems to be the only way, to discharge
this troubled mind of mine.
There are times, when my feelings
traverse back and forth
like a zip wire out of control.
it comes a calling
( ) I refuse to offer it a name
for it is no friend of mine.
presumptuously garmented, intent on
a long stays vacation.
Oh, I know it well
for what it is –
Name or no name.
It’s self destructiveness, lies deeper
than the creases in the smiles,
of my long hard, fought resistantance.
This kicking back – refusing
to let this un-invited visitor becoming
my constant companion, wears me thin.
For I know this battle
is my battle, long.
Always must I be
never willing, to permit
this self, destructive intruder:
To, come inside – and stay…
female poet, female writer, illness, mental health, pain, poet, Poetry, sadness, sane, sanity, woman
Oct · 15