Reduced

We are reduced, brought
down into small places,
long ignored in the days
of youth, if indeed, ever

imagined. But time trims
and prunes inexorably, to
bring the minutiae of life
into our minds, in order

that the trivial, banal and
inconsequential, can be
known for what they
really are - the building

blocks of our being; the
atoms of our soul; the
threads offered for slow
weaving in allotted days.

Wintered

As the days draw tight
and darkening, calling
to the remnants of
light, to remain in

shadowed hope, so
does the season pass
and we are wintered;
cold soil beckons to

remaindered leaves,
sucking final songs
of warmth from a
mellowed sun, even

as we grieve for the
loss of what once
was known, and in
silence wait, for new

beginnings, which
have yet to push their
way through chilled
unforgiving memory.

Words

When there are no words
to convey, hold, nourish
the feelings, then, what
do we have, but lingering

emptiness and the sense
of being unfulfilled,
where grief sits sullen,
sodden, sorrowing and

cannot lift her skirts to
walk beyond the misery
of the moment....such
is the gift of words. 

Positioned

https://jhurlbert.com/

Positioned neatly on your
simple shelf of reality, so
do I sit, dangling over
the edge of that wooden

mind, beakening you to
return and enfold me in
your arms, wrap tight
the empty naked space

I have become; before
the tears fold through
shuttered eyes and fall
down into that other

world, where my weeping
will go unheard, in this
drop from great heights,
to unfeeling oblivion.

https://dversepoets.com/2019/06/18/meet-jackie-hurlbert/

Fret

Anxious, alarmed, grimly

haunted, so does the heart

fret, as time plays sorrow’s

song, demanding that the

fingers be placed just so,

across the bars of cold

memory; sounding bitter

notes of hope, reflected

in bleak, stark shadow

lines across mind’s sad,

sullen symphony. 

https://dversepoets.com/2019/06/17/quadrille-82-fretboard-of-poetry/

Wintering

as the days breathe chilled
air through the cracks of
hours, so do we settle
into the chest of Winter,

pulling close to its slow
beat, huddling to warm
moments, nestling into
hibernation of soul, and

frosted self; such is the
way of it when this
season calls and holds
us to its ancient breast. 

Decay

Slow at first, hardly seen,
the creep and chew of
decay; inexorable break
down, entropic destiny,

from which there is no
escape, whether soul,
self, frail body, or some
abandoned timber, lying

forlorn at the uncaring
feet of weather, where
time toys with edges,
plays with substance,

demands change and
disarray, as if order
were some offence,
and rotting life's true

path, where what was
is slowly brought down,
transformed into other,
yet strangely familiar,

with its crusted kiss,
pouting patiently until
there is no choice but
to surrender.