All posts tagged Poetry

The Crane

Published November 12, 2014 by rlmcdermott

Did 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 flyThe Last Cranes Flying

The Violinist

Published August 19, 2014 by rlmcdermott

you pick me up
and put me down
and strike a bow
across my strings–
there is no sound

there is no sound
where sound should
be–the music’s fled

the air outside
has grown too
hot the bombs
have left too
many dead–

black notes across
a littered street
what cannot sing
will never weepThe Violinist

Flight 17

Published July 23, 2014 by rlmcdermott

In a month
we will not

an open guidebook,
a child’s drawing,
a map of Bali–

dreams scattered
in an open field.

The sun will
rise and set,
moonlight will
be moonlight–
indifferent to
the mean ambitions
of men with guns.

Only the
earth will
what we
to forget–
red poppies
falling from
the sky.Red Poppies Falling From The Sky

The Artist

Published February 27, 2014 by rlmcdermott

I’ve written
so many
for you

and painted
pictures too

blue and
red and
gold on
paper made
of skin

I am
of how
I’ve loved

a lantern
in the sky

could not
have burned
as bright

I will
not stop
I reach
the sun

and all
my art
in flame
gives fiery
birth to your
sweet name

The Botanist

Published February 14, 2014 by rlmcdermott

the corner
when it saw
her coming
until she
found it
in a field
full of

She knows
their names
better than
she knows
her own–
brown-eyed susan.

They grab
at straws
to keep
alive. Their
days are
bright and
flat and
they roll
them on
their edges.

Deep in
the tall
she can
hear them
a simple
song that
settles on
the wind.The Botanist

Long Season Of Waiting

Published February 14, 2014 by rlmcdermott

I wonder why
for some of us
life is like a long
season of waiting.

Does the cone flower
know the brevity
of its dance;
its one brown
eye blasted daily
by the sun–
can it see
but the sky?

I’m a flower too
and my season
has been long.
For me, there
is no fall
in this place
just an endless
summer of grief.

I am unnatural,
a seed lifted
by the breeze
and carried here–
distant from the prairie,
distant from the tall grass,
distant from the meadow lark,
and distant from that softer
season when the earth
puts on its gray hat
and takes its flowers home.Landscape On An IPHONE

The Yew Tree

Published February 13, 2014 by rlmcdermott

she dresses
you in red
and takes
you to her bed

you think that I don’t know

but flowers
grow beside
my heart
and tell me
all their secrets

the small hotel
the river Seine
the Paris sky

pain is all I know these days

you lied

I was myself
until you came
and sat beside me
on a garden bench
and asked my name

I couldn’t turn away

two years have passed
since that bright day
the moon has danced
across so many skies
all painted blue and
I grow old and cannot
die for love of youThe Yew Tree

Beauty Is The Beast

Published December 30, 2013 by rlmcdermott

It’s never why
it’s only when
the extra letter
fits the pain

a man
a tree
a long-haired girl

remind you of the moon

you once believed
but now you don’t

all courage in an empty cup

you drink to him

gall is made
from wine
gone bitter
in a broken heart

you turn away in shame

Narcissus at the touching pool

enthralled by what he sees–

beauty is the beastAfter Klimt

The Bird Girl

Published December 5, 2013 by rlmcdermott

All these
moons I’ve
painted that
bring no light–

the sun,
the stars,
the sky,

they can
not see
that I am
standing still.

These things
I dream are
dreamed for
someone else–

the bitter fruit,
the barren tree,
the songless bird
are all for me.

I wear them well
around my neck
until I cannot breathe–

I will not stay to
see them leave.

Who reads this
poem cannot
know me–
I didn’t bury
birds they
buried me.The Bird Girl