Winner: Poem of the Week: August 28, 2005
from each flutter
by jeannerene
at what hour comes this night
my beloved’s image
under a pillow biding
waits
. . . dallys neath linen
of timeless thread
devotion’s delicate weave
impatient
for my kiss
lips wet with rue
to set
upon his cool and counterfeit brow
phantom cheek
pines
to have me
leave my touch intangible
carried on the night’s haze
and diminished with a restless breath
. . . silenced
this brutal keepsake
I stroke
caress
at what hour comes my night
most tenderly
. . . to absorb each angle, point and slant
of he
by eye and fingertip
only
now left to me
and so
to dream
soft on sheets
of pastel fantasy
he weeps
. . . and from each flutter
cast by wick and wax
I mind my dearest’s misery
maddened
an unwilling portrait
lifted from beneath my memories
. . silenced
he
gathers my curls in his hand
draws the ribbons of my gown
at what hour comes our night
jeanne rené 8.05
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Winner: Poem of the Week: August 28, 2005
As Children Tip My Weathered Stone
by bags123
I'll never wonder when I'm dead
No good dreams left inside my head
No words described upon my lips
No touch upon cold fingertips
Can't hear the thunder underground
Where silence is the only sound
Where lay the lies of truth inscribed
Where I can't see what darkness hides
Indifferently, I'll then decay
As quietly as each new day
As winter whispers through my bones
As children tip my weathered stone
