Poetry

We Stand On The Edge

We stand on the edge
as the tides of life
direct us on this
journey…
this place
and time
waiting
for something new
to begin
and something old
to cease
and the things
that shall be —
will be.

We stand on the edge
reaching out
to grasp;
waiting
for that feeling
one so near…
yet far
we hope to touch
just one
other soul…
encountered
or not —
we hope.

We stand on the edge
wondering who we are
waiting
for that knowing
what it is,
was,
and will be…
our purpose
dearly sought
while our lives
drift ahead —
for we are
merely shadows
of one another
as we stand.

© Literary Remains

Poetry

Sanctum

Wave once more, distant sun! Cool air
shivers the evergreen, shoulders bare,
where rays of light now flinch afraid;
lichen grows, in veiled nooks of shade,
where woods, are clad in April leaf,
as the day ends, her time now brief.
In the night, lone here, sometimes I
can hear nature breathing, even sigh;
ferns brim, this trail along the way,
while the deer lingers nigh and stay,
and rock, where green moss will cast,
nods ‘neath, with drowsy lids at last.

© Literary Remains

Poetry

Æthelred’s Massacre

Old wound scarred over one-eyed Odin
and Tyr who had lost his hand;
they witnessed the Valkyrie
in her gilded chariot
as she took her
warriors to
Valhalla.

With long swords still sheathed,
the Danes drank mead
as their throats
were silenced
in slaughter;
no longer
able to
sing their Sagas.

Over a thousand years ago –
the field lay of dead warriors
as roots of elm pushed
through ribs
and skulls.
Blossoms thrived above
in spring — while in winter,
snow pressed weathered bones
deeper…
and deeper
into the earth.

They rest in soil diminished and consecrated
from journeys they once undertook –
Now reposed without pain,
all that remains, are
sword-nicked bones
in the field
of their
demise.

© Literary Remains

Poetry

Dust In The Wind

Wind curls around the corner of nowhere
as I lie here while the grit blows
against my sun-bleached bones
dead without dimension,
and leaving no mark
for having wished
too softly and seldom –
I was patient too long
and trusted too damned much
now sand creeps across the land
wedded to the cleft of yesterday
I am a shape without space
as air flows through me
decayed from
the inside out
offering myself in a
last desperate oblation
as my words, like the wind
intercepts their meaning
saying it without nouns,
italics, fury or pathos
uncomplaining and unbound
upon this parched dry ground
until at last, an end of the end,
I’m merely dust and settled again.

© Literary Remains