The Writing’s On The Wall But Not Really!
Published October 7, 2023 by rlmcdermottDeath
All posts tagged Death
Anima Sola
Published January 5, 2022 by rlmcdermott
Craqueleur
Published August 19, 2015 by rlmcdermottYou smell
it first–
musky
dust on
a favorite
chair
flowers wilting
in a blue vase
shadows
You count
the lines
on your face
craqueleur
every bone
has a name
carved into it
nothing is
left unmarked
Then you
remember
bird song
a cone flower
growing on a
country road
cherry blossoms
falling in a
Kyoto garden
The Absence Of Cranes
Published November 12, 2014 by rlmcdermott
The Crane
Published November 12, 2014 by rlmcdermottDid you
know that
I am dying
that I am
like a blue
crane flying
riding thermals
without wings
life is such
a fickle thing
it’s so hard
to let you go
yet so easy
to live alone
how could
I have loved
a moon that
never shines for me
am I grieving you
or grieving me
so long this dying
has to be–
a day a night
spent in the sky
who loves me
loves to fly
The Bone Singer
Published August 29, 2014 by rlmcdermottand in her
turning is
a turning
back to
the blue
lichen
and fleshy
moss dripping
from bare
trees where
wild gods sit
and play
songs on
white bone
she has
grown old
underneath
a silent moon
waiting for
something
that never
comes–
to be loved again
and as
her small
feet strike
stone a
note is
struck
on bone
white bone
that sings
of home–
a place she’s
never known 
The Lament Singers
Published August 19, 2014 by rlmcdermottIn a desert
of mecury
nations of
unkept women
rest like squat
beetles on
all fours–
listening with
ears buttoned
to the ground.
They can
hear voices
echoing in
their heads,
whispering
of immolation,
hearts buring
in the afternoon,
birds soaring
in the sky.
There is no
comfort in
the keening
breeze, what
was blue
has turned
to red, falling
bombs have
gleaned their
husband’s bones
and left their
children dead.
Wintering
Published June 11, 2014 by rlmcdermottI love the
grayness
of the tree’s
bare limbs,
cachectic leaves
clinging to the
frozen earth,
green is always
such a fickle thing.
Headlines
Published May 13, 2014 by rlmcdermottHow did
this happen;
dead beneath
the headlines–
blue metal,
blue bird,
blue child?
Imagine
the moment,
the sharp
slap of air,
the ferocious
snap of wing,
and then
the still
and certain fall.
And you,
the child,
all breakable
bone; your
arm twisted
until it spiraled
out of its socket,
and like the
bird fell
down.
On a cold Sunday,
inside a newspaper,
beside a metal dumpster
two things dead–
a bird and a child.
The Ibis
Published December 23, 2013 by rlmcdermottI take you
back a
thousand
times a day
and let you
go because
it is my way
all your red
is just an
artifact of blue
what I really love is death
you weren’t
real because
you weren’t him
small gods are not the ones to love
and so I cast
my lyre into the
sea and tuck
my head beneath
my wing–a bird
standing on one leg
I wait beneath a paper tree
for death to comfort me
rlmcdermott 