Poetry

All posts in the Poetry category

Craqueleur

Published August 19, 2015 by rlmcdermott

You smell
it first–
musky

dust on
a favorite
chair

flowers wilting
in a blue vase

shadows

You count
the lines
on your face

craqueleur

every bone
has a name
carved into it

nothing is
left unmarked

Then you
remember
bird song

a cone flower
growing on a
country road

cherry blossoms
falling in a
Kyoto gardenCracqueleur

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The Crane

Published November 12, 2014 by rlmcdermott

Did you
know that
I am dying

that I am
like a blue
crane flying

riding thermals
without wings
life is such
a fickle thing

it’s so hard
to let you go
yet so easy
to live alone
how could
I have loved
a moon that
never shines for me

am I grieving you
or grieving me
so long this dying
has to be–
a day a night
spent in the sky
who loves me
loves to flyThe Last Cranes Flying

The Bone Singer

Published August 29, 2014 by rlmcdermott

and in her
turning is
a turning

back to
the blue
lichen
and fleshy
moss dripping
from bare
trees where
wild gods sit
and play
songs on
white bone

she has
grown old
underneath
a silent moon
waiting for
something
that never
comes–
to be loved again

and as
her small
feet strike
stone a
note is
struck
on bone
white bone
that sings
of home–
a place she’s
never known The Bone Singer

The Lament Singers

Published August 19, 2014 by rlmcdermott

In a desert
of mecury
nations of
unkept women
rest like squat
beetles on
all fours–
listening with
ears buttoned
to the ground.

They can
hear voices
echoing in
their heads,
whispering
of immolation,
hearts buring
in the afternoon,
birds soaring
in the sky.

There is no
comfort in
the keening
breeze, what
was blue
has turned
to red, falling
bombs have
gleaned their
husband’s bones
and left their
children dead.The Lament Singer

The Violinist

Published August 19, 2014 by rlmcdermott

you pick me up
and put me down
and strike a bow
across my strings–
there is no sound

there is no sound
where sound should
be–the music’s fled

the air outside
has grown too
hot the bombs
have left too
many dead–

black notes across
a littered street
what cannot sing
will never weepThe Violinist

Flight 17

Published July 23, 2014 by rlmcdermott

In a month
we will not
remember,

an open guidebook,
a child’s drawing,
a map of Bali–

dreams scattered
in an open field.

The sun will
rise and set,
moonlight will
be moonlight–
indifferent to
the mean ambitions
of men with guns.

Only the
earth will
remember
what we
choose
to forget–
red poppies
falling from
the sky.Red Poppies Falling From The Sky