Poem 1: Unus Annus
This poem no longer exists, in keeping with the spirit and intent of the channel upon which it was based. If you didn’t get to read it before the night of November 13, I apologize, but the clock stops for nobody.
Poem 2: O Hollow Jack
O Hollow Jack,
spirit of a turnip,
how did ye turn from
a wandering phantom
to an embodiment
of All Hallow’s Eve?
Your soul’s an odd one,
wanted not by God
nor claimed by the Devil,
left to roam the world
with the body of a vegetable
and the heart of an Irishman?
O tell us, Jack,
What food do you haunt now?
A pumpkin, perhaps?
Poem 3: Three Birds
There once were three birds living in my tree: a sparrow, a crow, and a chickadee.
I know not why they chose my tree… To rest their wings, to sing, to sit by me?
I soon grew used to these curious birds. They’d call, we’d trade sounds and words.
One day, the sparrow went away. Perhaps she was tired of sitting in my tree,
or maybe she grew hungry… but she never again returned to me.
It’s okay, I don’t mind… I’m not upset, I’m sure she had her reasons why.
The next week, the crow flew off; we never really talked a lot,
but somehow I just feel more empty without him looking over me.
I can’t help feel like I’m in the wrong… was it my fault, did you not like my song?
Months later, the chickadee disappeared, just as I’d always feared.
“Does nobody like me,” I ask as I burst into tears,
the tree empty as the hole in my heart where my friends used to be.
All through the winter… it’s only I, myself and me.
If they were here now, what would they think?
Would they attack me, laugh at me, mock me?
If they’ve gone… should I too disappear?
No… at least not until spring.
Poem 4: The Erl-King Rides Tonight
Out of vision, out of sight,
in the darkest hours of night
while the young ones snore,
a charcoal soul patrols the moor.
Stay inside and lock the door.
Stay inside, I must implore.
Stay inside, turn off the lights,
for the Erl-King rides tonight.
Poem 5: Seeds of Svalbard
Up north in the Arctic exists a place
where seeds of all sizes, species, and shapes
are stored in case of a catastrophe,
so if all else dies, the plants still live on.
Built in the frozen bedrock of Svalbard
on the remote island of Spitsbergen,
run together by Crop Trust and NordGen,
along with the Norwegian government.
Crops of all kinds are charted and stored
securely and safely within this vault.
On all sides shielded from heat, bugs, and war,
it holds its own against any assault.
They preserve life and all that has worth,
for the good of everyone on Earth.
Poem 6: Destroyer of Worlds
I once dreamed of an unspeakable future.
A landscape broken by death and destruction,
Millions of lives lost in a single season.
Bombs drop without rhyme or reason,
every crater a reminder of the
complacency that ultimately
obliterate our sense of rationality.
Men, women, children, dead…
every flag’s been torn to shreds.
Disease and famine scourge this land,
eclipsing whatever hope is yet left.
A world brought down to kneel
through sheer force of will, by an unfeeling
hand that knows not what wrath it’s wrought upon itself.
Poem 7: Reaper and the Phoenix
There once was a reaper apprentice
neither shy nor pretentious.
Though skilled with the scythe,
she knew little of life,
so from reaping, she took a hiatus.
Through the human world she wandered,
and the meaning of life she pondered.
Along one day came a phoenix,
to whom death was no weakness,
and to all she was a nuisance.
The phoenix, entranced by the reaper,
began, day after day, to follow her.
No matter how hard she tried,
or how often the phoenix died,
she just couldn’t shake the creature.
As the two walked alongside each other,
they grew to appreciate the world better.
The reaper learned to be patient,
the phoenix more considerate,
and so they learned of life together.
Poem 8: Unsinkable Humanity
Ignorant, we wander
a frozen minefield,
each near miss
that we possess
the right of way.
adrift along a frigid sea,
we purposely ignore
the warnings on the radar,
the icebergs in the water,
for we wouldn’t want
to ruin our party,
The icebergs don’t care.
Why should we?
One thought on “Poetry Compilation X: Memento Mori”
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