Final Silence

there are no birds,

or flowers,

or running

hand in hand.

hopeful eyes,

once mirrored

in imagined futures

reach their final view

parched lips,

upon whose

cracking flesh

wine flowed,

laughter bubbled,

and love pressed

his brief desire

now fade.

lined hands,

once moved with gestures

touched by dreams,

claw the winding shroud

with talons of despair

I care,

for everyone who

dies,

not knowing

where the time has gone,

or why.

we die

no closer to the truth,

yet having known the

intense fragility

of ephemeral youth.

© James Rainsford 2013

Note to readers: Posted to Open Link Night at Diverse Poets. I'll respond to all who visit here and leave a comment. Kind regards to all, James.

 

My Need to Tell

“My language is the universal whore whom I have to make into a virgin”
Karl Kraus.

My need to tell translates my thoughts

To words which have been tarnished

By the constant touch of common tongues.

Leaving language tainted by the

Coarseness of Plebeian lips.

Words are my tools in need of transformation,

My task to buff them so they shine like new.

Bringing to my work, a truth

Beyond the blemishes of time.

© James Rainsford 2013

Note to readers: posted to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. The quote by Karl Kraus describes the poet's task to perfection and I've long thought of writing something to expand its relevance. Finally, I've done it. I leave it to others to judge whether I've succeeded. Kind regards to all at dVerse poets. I'll respond to all who visit here and leave a comment. James. 

 

Prayer

The dreams we keep in grown-up sleep
Bring nightly visions of a place
Where time and space
Have ceased to be.
A magic place,
Where we can be,
Free to choose
How lovers win and cynics lose.
Where night shall bring such
Soothing songs to right past deeds
And ancient wrongs,
Dispelling fears of demons past
Bringing perfect peace at last.

May all our dreams
from childhood come
nightly with the end of real,
And brightly burning, make us feel
As we did when we were young,
Reborn each morning with the sun. 

© James Rainsford 2013

Note to readers: Posted as my contribution to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.  I'll respond to all who visit here and leave a comment. Kind regards to all at dVerse Poets, James.

Devon Sunset

Photo:  Copyright James Rainsford

Trees’ tortured forms
Crackle through the scarlet
Of departing day with
Shapes sinister and strange.
Ascending like black lightning.
Seeking succour from the
Blood of light’s farewell.
Leaving legacies to beauty,
And bequeathing to the chill
Of an uncertain night
The vision of a burning sky,
A stunning tribute to the
Sun’s incredible goodbye.

© James Rainsford 2013

Note to readers: The poem was inspired by this photograph of a sunset I captured on Tuesday 21st May from the small village of Knowstone in North Devon. I've rarely seen the sky quite so red and the stark contrast of the twisted trees in silhouette made the shot even more dramatic.

Your opinions are welcome and I'll respond to all who visit here and leave a comment.

Kind regards to all at dVerse Poets. James. 

 

The Kind of Care I Care About

I’d admit to a prejudice,
But, banality is too widespread
To prove the dead live only here.

I’ve moved, year after year.

Wearied by the search for fonder minds
The finds I make tend for the sake of self.
Take, not give, the living way.
Pay, and don’t stay to hear unsubtle stories,
Trivial glories given status undeserved.

I’d like to say that other’s gifts
Were lifted without payment.
But, the price I pay for sanity
Confirms the pity of a culture
Which can lure ten million minds
To live within the score of finds
Reduced by mass produced response.

Aware;
The kind of care I care about
Is touted by the few,
I must make do with plundering
The wonder of remembered views,
Where time and place were peopled
By a different race than these,
Who learn so early how to turn
Such slight concerns into a view
Which does not grow.
Consigns expectancy to youth
And sheds the truth too soon
To leave sufficient room
For all the womb bred promise
Of the hopefulness of youth

Allowing us to die
Knowing that the truth
Is rarely told, and our compassion
Makes us slaves, to emotions
That are bought, and sold by knaves.

© James Rainsford 2013

Note to readers: Posted somewhat late to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. I'll respond to all who visit here and leave a comment. Kind regards to all at dVerse. James.