I am a retired contract historian and researcher who has been writing (and occasionally publishing) poetry during the past six to seven years. I live and work in Welland, Ontario, in the heart of the Niagara Peninsula.
From letters written long
the dead cry out, unceasingly,
not for monuments or
but for love and understanding.
But I, a slave of reveries
cannot conjure what they want,
cannot invent what they
Blank pages whisper words.
A girl ghost
coiling herself around me,
as she plumes heavenwards,
at the final farewell.
Doped up on daydreaming
I feel her, two
lying on my breast.
She whom I once adored
is now a siren
to me to rise with her.
But the cold clanging of the Sanctus
breaks this retreat into reverie.
My eyes open, smarting from the
She has fled and I see the Host.
Like the wandering
Monarch I spied at the end of day,
we aging boys of autumn too slip
Brown brittle leaves curled up in death,
float down to earth like
in a dance of decay choreographed by the
blessed by the smoky incense of a ripened sun.
I drink in the
scene, close my eyes
happy as a bee entombed in an apple.
slice up the ground, the funeral drapery of old:
wordless scrolls of
black preach the passing of all things.
A cool undercurrent in the
gently lowers the light into its nighttime grave.
Supper at the Nursing Home: An Epiphany
The spoon in
his hand is an umbilical cord
from bowl to bowel via mouth and
It is a lifeline to the next meal the next day
the next month
the next year the next lifetime.
©2014 Michael Power