A Walk in the Wood

The blue-ness of the clear sky asks – demands –
to lighten every next step.
And the scent of ash and dogwood tree
do robustly push me along.
Wonder I, softly, this chorus center be –
Heaven sent or songbirds of field they.
Nether I, worldly, do God’s treasures accept –
such as these might last my eternity –
Tucked away serenely, saved alone for me.

And what should see, come upon us –
in these wildwood trees of colors so grand?
Nestled amongst the shaded floor –
‘twixt the sprouted saplings there
should find a creature grandly divine –
Spinning, webbing her silken thread –
toiling high wires so delicately fine.
The she-spider gliding along –
in her own geometric world –
Hop, hop, hop and stitch –
moving right along –
her very life a true love song
garnishing her moment in time.
And safely stowed deep away
…………..in her silky little patch –
are things of generations yet to come –
tiny spiders not yet born –
in their tender egg sac – but soon
for all this world to see….

Fly, baby spider – glide along –
time to scoot along to your own home…
Pray thee, not to look down –
else to find father – with missing crown –
left where mother killed – and laid him down.
His body, shrunken, coiled upon the ground.
Withered, and cold – yet clasping still –
that last after-sex cigarette – ash burnt down…
Fly away, little spider, fly away
No love here to be found……
Only cigarette ashes and fallen stars…..
Only the first of your many scars.
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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Burnt Roses

                    This image of a beautiful rose was captured by a new friend, Yvette.

                             Merci beaucoup Yvette, cette photo d’une fleur est absolument magnifique ……

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Burnt Roses

You picked roses, cut their nursing
stems.  Their cradled, vital blooms
slashed into slow death.  That
crystal vase, a mausoleum, a glass
casket to watch them slowly fade
away, designed to wither and
decay for your enjoyment.
Their petals blacken and you smile.

And what of my heart?  Can
your shears pierce it too,
prop me in a jar and watch my
essence drain away?  Has the
foulness of your death breath
blown upon me?  Do the remnants
of my rotting, sloughing
soul please you?

But roses will die anyway,
at season’s end you say.
What’s a month or two?
Or a decade given to the realm of beauty?
What beauty is that, dearest?
My crystal urn clouds the view,
this misty grey once called my life
grovels upon the shards of it.

I long for what once was,
the glory of that single moment in time
when I lived upon my stem.

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© 2011 John Richter