The Romance Poet

Dry Leaves

By Lydia Nolan

© June 24, 2019

Oh, so many of my people are blowing away—

Like dry leaves on a windy day…

I am feeling those losses too deeply, I say…

 

I felt it first when my father died

When I was seventeen years of age.

That was my first meeting with Death.

I did not trust it, or like it, at all.

In fact, truth is: I hated Death beginning back then…

 

And then it took my Mother, my uncles, my aunts—

My grandparents followed straightaway…

And then my brother died way too early.

We never even got to put our quarrels away.

 

And finally without warning Death began on my friends…

This is when I suspected the harsh reality

That it hovered around the other end of my table

And then my pets begin to age and die—

 

They died in accidents like my father did,

On some highway, with a ne’er good-bye to let be brace for it.

And when my closest friends dwindled I began to lean in

And then it came for my other siblings

And then I knew—well into despair and fear—

That it was only a  matter of time what it intended

For me as well…But I held onto the vine and

Did not let go to go blowing away…

 

I knew I would be swept up soon, like everyone else,

All whom I had loved with hope and joy…but now,

I worry about my children, that is all.

My children who will be next:

The generation to rake up the piles of leaves

When all my generation (and I) are lifted into the wind

Of timeless Eternity—

 

I do not want to leave my children, but

I am anxious to see those past leaves of love and joy

Made with a new creation of supple bodies.

All that have gone before me, including my pets,

I will see again…

 

Yet, if only we’d not pass the gate into the wind

Never to be blown away—

Never taste the tongue of Death at all—

And if we must be blown away, let it be a dance

About the wind, that it should die, instead…

 

 

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Bad Company
© by Lydia Nolan
March 31, 2019
What to do—
Nothing there is, that is
Not one pair, not two—
There simply is a covenant;
Commitment is a hard word.
Fostering care, a member of
Courage for the others
And more than one has
To listen, to learn, to love—
Nothing is left but
The staled Bread
The rancid wine
The empty head—
Nothing is left… … … …

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Dawn
By Lydia Nolan
©08/02/16
Stars, previously twinkling, begin to fade.
Some of them long to stay awake, and
Fight a little longer, to
Dance the night away—but fail, again.
Clouds, and soft winds
Brush up on the stars, like
Blankets, cooing them to
Lie still until tomorrow’s night.
For now, the dark is slumbering,
The Dawn is blinking its eyes awake,
Lavender sheds upon the dark blue skin of sky,
Stretched and gradually changing into
Baby blue plump skin, wearing purple ribbons—
Gradually, as the hours creep by, and the
Sun’s courtiers peep in, to gauge the
Monumental dew and assess duties from the din,
Clean-up will begin; always at Dawn, always,
After the raucous-filled moon dancers fade away.
Dawn draws the curtains and lets in its majesty,
The sun.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Eating Stones
© September 9, 2013
By Lydia Nolan
Withering—
Rotting teeth, bloody screams…
Oftentimes, a dull pain—
Emptying Hope
Poisoning—
The stones claw through
The intestines: the seat of emotions
Then go straight for the heart…
Absolving—
Somnolent silence
Teary-eyed, the stones feel like sediment now,
So they travel deeper
For permanent damage.
Starving—
There are no nutrients there,
Only the taste of battle,
And it hurts—
It hurts to swallow,
To remember,
To enlighten, finally…
Hence—
To purge a loss
It is vital to begin
Eating stones…
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Desert
By Lydia Nolan
©08/02/16
Even when it’s overcast, it’s dry.
Sand is everywhere, kicking up its heels
When the wind blows by,
Threshing its hair like wheat from the chaff.
Rocks are walls, whose job it is to
Trap the Russian Thistle from
Spreading, in wind, every seed
When it turns into Tumbleweed.
And we ask God: why must it be so hot?
Don’t the snakes and rabbits suffer enough
Foraging for food, killing each other off?
And even so, we go and stand upon a hill,
In the middle of the desert, lording still,
Like Pirates on a dry sea steering a ship,
Looking beyond and searching for souls,
Seeking treasure like the infidels, while
Tasting the dry, warm breeze—
In the dry, and dying, land, remote and vast as empty sails.