It’s fun to have a chance to share a bit of poetry on here. I’ve always loved it, but in today’s world, far too few take the time to enjoy the sound of words, and the shape of a poem, which to me is an integral part of what it says. Even though I’m not great at it, I enjoy writing poetry far too much to ever quit. The last one I shared was about love and hope. This one is about betrayal and loss.
The Last Rose
Late July, and
The day drowses,
Air heavy and still.
Bees moving slowly from
Flower to flower,
In a dance weighed down by heat.
Sleepy hours spent dreaming, longing
For other places, other chances.
Anything better
Than one more day
Spent under this weight,
With movements made slow,
Like easy prey.
He walked out of the dust
And into the garden,
The answer to a prayer.
Wickedly handsome, he came to her with
A smile full of promises she chose to believe.
Take me away, she begged.
Yes, he whispered, of course.
Whatever you want, my beautiful girl.
He gave her dreams of cool, green hills
And kisses that tasted of summer peaches.
Sweet lies on a sweeter tongue,
Promises whispered with hot breath,
Against already burning skin,
And everywhere, the smell of roses
Thick on the summer air.
But winter came,
Bringing brittle wind
Seeping under the sill,
As cold as hungry lies
Told when the sun was warm.
Her heart is a frozen stone
In the center of her breast,
The chance of rescue,
Gone. Forgotten.
A faded rose in a dry vase
Drops one last petal to the floor,
As gray as her life
In this barren room.
Empty promises fled
With the summer sun,
And left nothing behind
But dead dreams and dying hope,
Gasping and huddled
Against the bitter
Cold.
The Write Stuff 
Awesome Marcia! I’m bummedI haven’t gotten a chance to read everyone’s excerpts. I’m on jury duty and it ended up being more than the usual “sit around until you get dismissed” so now my online time is limited through early next week. I hope to catch up over the weekend and get some new stuff to read!
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I’m glad you liked it, Jen. It’s one of my favorites, even though when Mark read it, he confessed to an overwhelming desire to throw himself off a bridge! 😀
Don’t worry about reading yet. We accept jury duty as an excuse, here. 😉 I’m trying to be sure each excerpt is listed in the Excerpt Week category, so you can find them all in one place when you have time. There’s some good stuff showing up, and I’m hoping for even more between now and Sunday night.
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I don’t write poetry, but I admire those who do. This was fabulous, Marcia!
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Thanks, Sue. I started writing poems when I was five, and I never lost the love of it. I hardly ever write poems about cowboys and horses any more, but I like to keep a hand in. I’ll never be brilliant at it, and since poetry doesn’t sell all that well today, I’m more focused on my books, but I still go back to poetry when I want to play with words. And I still read all my favorites, though I confess to a love of the “old guys.” The poems I learned/read in school have the same power over me today as they did then.
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That’s the mark of great writing, as you know. Isn’t that wonderful when it happens? Love that feeling.
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Yep. I could read my old favorites over and over again. Poe (Oh, how I love reading his poetry out loud) comes to mind immediately, though I loved so many more. James Whitcomb Riley, Tennyson, Longfellow, etc. And one of my all-time favorites for magic with words, Amy Lowell. I read her poem about the purple grackles every single autumn, as they invade my yard like they do in her poem, and are a favorite bird of mine. And of course, her poem “Patterns” was required reading when I was in high school. I’m not sure there’s such a thing any more. Sometimes I’m not sure being ABLE to read is even required in high school. 😦 Alas!
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