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Winter-left
by Alison McKenzie
A population is bereft,
Winter-left and hushed,
Hung from a cliff
To face an uncertain wind
And no help in sight.
A swollen Moon broods,
Unable to ferret solutions
Written, perhaps, in annals
Of prophetic notions
Which do not come to pass.
Truth lies frozen
Atop a slushy mix
Of love and mud;
That will disappear
On the rise of a new Sun,
Yesterday’s grass
Relieved of the fear
And knowing
That this world is not for long.
Oh, but the taste of hope
Dies bitter on a parched tongue,
Those of us who “knew”
Our truth and wept
In great fits of dry heaves
When it did not arrive.
So, now we face
The pages of an empty book,
Our futures blank
On a canvas without paint,
Pens poised for inception
And all that is to come
Instead.
12/31/2012 Posted on 12/31/2012
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 12/31/12 at 07:58 PM Excellent post Dec. 21, 2012 piece. Has its own meaning, I know, that will stand the test of time, but the timing also is flawless. |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 01/03/13 at 12:30 PM "Oh, but the taste of hope
Dies bitter on a parched tongue,
Those of us who “knew”
Our truth and wept
In great fits of dry heaves
When it did not arrive."
Such beautiful words for so deep and wounded an emotion, Alison...and pages from my own autobiography, I would add. |
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