by Angela Stevens
In England there is a chill;
nothing but a spider-hiding chill,
spindly legs grinding & takes all good
warmth, like a true chill should.
A wave of hand like a shocking kiss,
I'm suddenly thinking of manic shows,
of passions and riddles, I only know
you never meant anything good; all
picnics in fog, even when it stops
I'm not afraid to see a door closing, but
Posted on 06/04/2011
Copyright © 2020 Angela Stevens
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Joe Cramer on 06/05/11 at 01:40 AM|
... excellent... welcome to Pathetic.....
|Posted by Steve Baba on 06/06/11 at 08:53 PM|
I really enjoyed reading this. Great job.
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 06/07/11 at 11:41 AM|
a lovely ode to dissipate any fog or chill.
|Posted by Scott Utley on 06/10/11 at 01:07 AM|
Softly spoken with a fire-red heart. Oh boy, just when I didn't think I would make it after loosing my lover of 20 years and all three of my beloved animals within a few short months. I suddenly see how short life is but how terribly eternal it is too. And it is the feminine rising to such a momentous occasion - women are coming out from all over this cobalt orb of hope and tonight is just a little bit brighter now. Welcome.
|Posted by Kristine Briese on 06/12/11 at 01:24 AM|
Interesting rhythm, and wonderful imagery. Welcome!
|Posted by Richard Vince on 06/12/11 at 10:12 PM|
mm. evocative stuff, especially "picnics in fog". a great contrast with the summer poem i posted the other day [which was written, incidentally, in January]. :) reading this on a day when the rain totally wiped out four of the five cricket matches in England feels strangely appropriate. :) welcome to Pathetic. :)
|Posted by Sarah Brookes on 07/25/11 at 04:06 PM|
Lovely piece. Really enjoy the rhythm of it, especially when said under your breath. Thank you for posting it.
|Posted by Kristine Briese on 02/03/12 at 09:13 PM|
Read this again, and it's still gorgeous. Congrats on POTD!