January 2015
I am Boston born and bred, but speak with no Boston accent, an anomaly am I. I live in the land of metaphor and imagery. I am a teacher and I love what I do. I am happy to write for the sheer joy of it. Much of my work is dark but I have a wry sense of humor and consider myself to be quite funny. My husband tells me my favorite pastime is being right. I hope that you find something worthwhile in my words.
The Marking of The Bells
I knew when the bells were silenced
that it was finally done, as was I.
The snow fell furiously trying to cover
the ugliness only man can beset upon himself.
The memory of warm lips
brushed against my bluing ones
and I felt myself rise above the frost
but there was no lightness in my spirit.
Carillon splendor had marked the births and deaths
of everyone I had ever known, but no more...
it would die along with me and fall
into the dusty desolation of this place.
The sons of Adam had honed their weapons well,
smashed the fruits of labors of all who had come before.
They had stolen the sweetest of sounds in a greedy grab for glory
and tossed it into the vacant winds of history.
The Sigh of Misted Breath
So battle weary am I.
Scars have written their story
in Sanskrit across my back.
A blood-stained hand print
splayed on a limestone wall
will mark this time and place.
I dance the ceremony of ghosts
swirling through the path of swords
of another day, barbarians waiting
at the gates of my thoughts
refusing to be banished
begging, begging, begging
to be let in for they are starving
for more misery and loss,
but I have no more to give.
I long to be the moss-covered stone knight,
hands placed on the hilt of my sword,
to rest in dust beneath the cold carved effigy
of a deep hollow-eyed silence
that will breathe life into my soul
and release the light that has been trapped
within weakened flesh and bone.
I await the coming of the final blow
as I listen for the sweet sigh of misted breath.
Whispered Mortality
Mortality courts me lately
whispering time is a game
played beautifully by children.
I am embroiled in a shadow war
riddled with bullets,
no bodies yet in sight.
Deeper into the dark cosmos
I slip across the continuum-
no longer a lifeline but a tightrope.
As precious blossoms of life
slowly peel away I am able to finally see
beauty in its simplest forms
and savor the moments for I understand
that sometimes big dreams
have the ability to swallow you whole.
I knew when the bells were silenced
that it was finally done, as was I.
The snow fell furiously trying to cover
the ugliness only man can beset upon himself.
The memory of warm lips
brushed against my bluing ones
and I felt myself rise above the frost
but there was no lightness in my spirit.
Carillon splendor had marked the births and deaths
of everyone I had ever known, but no more...
it would die along with me and fall
into the dusty desolation of this place.
The sons of Adam had honed their weapons well,
smashed the fruits of labors of all who had come before.
They had stolen the sweetest of sounds in a greedy grab for glory
and tossed it into the vacant winds of history.
The Sigh of Misted Breath
So battle weary am I.
Scars have written their story
in Sanskrit across my back.
A blood-stained hand print
splayed on a limestone wall
will mark this time and place.
I dance the ceremony of ghosts
swirling through the path of swords
of another day, barbarians waiting
at the gates of my thoughts
refusing to be banished
begging, begging, begging
to be let in for they are starving
for more misery and loss,
but I have no more to give.
I long to be the moss-covered stone knight,
hands placed on the hilt of my sword,
to rest in dust beneath the cold carved effigy
of a deep hollow-eyed silence
that will breathe life into my soul
and release the light that has been trapped
within weakened flesh and bone.
I await the coming of the final blow
as I listen for the sweet sigh of misted breath.
Whispered Mortality
Mortality courts me lately
whispering time is a game
played beautifully by children.
I am embroiled in a shadow war
riddled with bullets,
no bodies yet in sight.
Deeper into the dark cosmos
I slip across the continuum-
no longer a lifeline but a tightrope.
As precious blossoms of life
slowly peel away I am able to finally see
beauty in its simplest forms
and savor the moments for I understand
that sometimes big dreams
have the ability to swallow you whole.
©2015 Anne Ross