Mortality Poems
"A thread that stitches shadows."
by Dylan Wu Rong
Through the thick mist,
I look down upon the grassy lands,
It is remorseful when I see-
the broken silver needle, on the stone slab.
Who left it behind, or did someone present it?
was it a gift or a memoir for the soul around it?
But maybe it was neither,
maybe- it was the stone that crafted it,
as a closer look sights me the rough cuts,
the many failed thin rods, stacked to the side.
......
"The weight of borrowed time."
by Dylan Wu Rong
Childhood is defined by innocence,
since the little hearts only know of the beauty,
the beauty of the butterfly,
the beauty of falling leaves,
the beauty of mid-summer night,
the beauty of first winter snow.
It is when those hearts see the hurt,
the hurt in the aging wings,
the hurt in the cold bare tree,
the hurt in the harvested seeds,
......
I am the Shadow in the Storm
by Robert Chase
The certainty of life’s completion is as clear as crystal
The hubris of youth recedes with each crease and line reflected in the mirror
The days of childrearing are nearing their end
Many are content to sit on their haunches to observe and advise
I refuse to wear the comfortable shawl - to rest in numb comfort
I rise - I stretch - I pick up my pack and venture forth
I will die gripping and squeezing the last drop of sunlight from my final day
Death needs that scythe to cut me down
I do not consent - I do not yield
I am the shadow in the storm catching the lightning
......
Heading Home
by Ken Ripley
I miss the trees that lined the road,
Their massive trunks and leafy boughs
Changing colors as the seasons passed.
They formed a living wall of green or red
That greeted me when I entered town,
Familiar and comforting as I’d drive by,
A quiet tug of reassurance
Telling me I was almost home.
Year after year, those boughs were there,
......
bubbles in the afternoon
by Ryan Hoffschneider
Bubbles in the afternoon
Blown on the back porch.
A gentle breeze caressing its way through my hair.
Looking into the eyes of people I once knew
Glimpses of the past.
Not a care in the world, for everything was good
Laughing at ourselves all day long
Amid the popping of those childish domes of soap.
The thing with bubbles
......
"A thread that stitches shadows."
by Dylan Wu Rong
Through the thick mist,
I look down upon the grassy lands,
It is remorseful when I see-
the broken silver needle, on the stone slab.
Who left it behind, or did someone present it?
was it a gift or a memoir for the soul around it?
But maybe it was neither,
maybe- it was the stone that crafted it,
as a closer look sights me the rough cuts,
the many failed thin rods, stacked to the side.
......
"The weight of borrowed time."
by Dylan Wu Rong
Childhood is defined by innocence,
since the little hearts only know of the beauty,
the beauty of the butterfly,
the beauty of falling leaves,
the beauty of mid-summer night,
the beauty of first winter snow.
It is when those hearts see the hurt,
the hurt in the aging wings,
the hurt in the cold bare tree,
the hurt in the harvested seeds,
......
Leaves
by Ken Ripley
How handy are the leaves that fall from trees,
Maple, Elm, Dogwood, even needles of pine.
I enjoy these trees, yet can’t tell one from another,
Except to appreciate their colors and their shade
And be soothed as each leaf rustles in the breeze.
And I can’t help thinking their story is like mine.
Proud at their peak to driest piles that smother,
The humblest leaf enriches me with every blade.
Leaves, like seasons, grow differently with time.
......
Heading Home
by Ken Ripley
I miss the trees that lined the road,
Their massive trunks and leafy boughs
Changing colors as the seasons passed.
They formed a living wall of green or red
That greeted me when I entered town,
Familiar and comforting as I’d drive by,
A quiet tug of reassurance
Telling me I was almost home.
Year after year, those boughs were there,
......
bubbles in the afternoon
by Ryan Hoffschneider
Bubbles in the afternoon
Blown on the back porch.
A gentle breeze caressing its way through my hair.
Looking into the eyes of people I once knew
Glimpses of the past.
Not a care in the world, for everything was good
Laughing at ourselves all day long
Amid the popping of those childish domes of soap.
The thing with bubbles
......
