Harbinger

 

The rose once technicolor bright

now sepia-toned, left, an oversight

to blend into the background.

 

And she, nearly devoid of color

doesn’t see it, everything now duller,

except when in her dreams.

 

Her frail body, a slight bump beneath

the blankets, but her mind unleashed

flits between sleep and waking–

 

she sees a vision of their summer home

the cottage colored sand and sea foam

and brightened by its rose garden,

 

and always scented by the sea.

But here and now, she

hears the ocean, waves lapping,

 

slapping the rhythm of the tide,

calling her—to slide

into her memories–

 

or no, a harbinger it seems

of what is next, not dreams.

Her sun is setting,

 

and now the room glows

a well-loved voice she knew and knows

says, “Come, Love. I’ve been waiting.

 

Sarah at dVerse has been pondering the word “harbinger,” and asks us to do the same in a poem. Lately my poems want to be stories, and my stories want to be poems. Perhaps this is a harbinger of something yet unknown (to me).  🙂

 

 

 

The Visitation–Sonnet

When misty twilight shifts to midnight black

then I fear to hear her mournful sighing

outside the window, cries of “bring me back”–

whispers first, but then intensifying.

 

Who is this spirit whose cries so haunt me?

What darkness of the soul fights through the night,

flutters about a flame as if to plea,

fleeing as dawn awakes, sheds rosy light,

 

wondrous–I see but her ghostly image

in her darkling visitations to me,

confusing, the purpose of the scrimmage

of our spirits, hers dead, but not set free.

 

Still, now I know when next she comes again

the light will fade for me–not why, but when.

 

For dVerse, where Björn has asked us to write a sonnet. I find sonnets very difficult to write. This one follows the Shakespearean rhyme scheme, and I hope the meter, too, but with an added twist of gothic sensibility.