Then The Rain Came

I haven’t written any poetry for what seems to be months! It has been a difficult and busy time in my life, but dealing with that in the right way has opened new avenues of creativity…so I hope anyone who reads this will enjoy it!

All the hands were turning,

The wrong way for some

As summer whispered her cruel secret.

Most can’t see

The leaves will fall this year,

Still green,

And the oppressive sky

Will squeeze the secrets out of all of us.

Then the rain will come;

I must learned that saying goodbye 

Is not just for other men…

And I fear I will cry God’s tears that day.

Monty Grant’s Poetry 2012.

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My first poem about a country stile!

I shut my eyes, and lingered a while,
Detached from bodily form
To dwell upon the words that formed
A poem about a country stile.

The grain was gnarled and knot protruding,
Weathered old and standing proud
Like a lonely aged war torn soldier
A history witnessed and life concluding.

The brush swept land of gold and green
The emerald grass and hill of grain.
Across the land and ghostly page
This virgin tale of where I’d been.

Each step toward this friend of mine
The view his gift to me
Was painted on a page in words
And with the page did intertwine.

With opened eyes, I stopped a while,
And wished to see my country stile.
I wish for the gift of sight for me,
But darkness is all I see.

This is my first fictitious poem about a fictitious scene turned into a first fictitious poem by a fictitious blind man! I joke, but my sentiment is heartfelt and I do believe it is very sad that someone who is blind cannot see the beautiful sights I have seen in the countryside around us today. Poem written as the result of a prompt about ‘first times’ by dverse pots pub.

The Haunting Owl

She sweeps across the night so still
Her poise and power, grace and skill,
In lamp-light moon and ground so bright
Hunts this creature of the night;
Her silent flight is as a sigh
And life burns wild in piercing eye.
With dark of wing and flash of white
This killer comes in dead of night;
A ghostly shadow on silent wing,
And song of myth that she does sing.
A winged beauty of the dark
That goes to sleep with rise of lark.