Blue Bells For Her

I found you weeping where the Blue Bells didn’t grow

In a bone-strewn graveyard of the river’s flow

Summer’s passing was cold in ice blue eyes

Holding only a reflection of witless sky

Oak trees shuddered, shedding their death

Dry leaves rattled like sickly breath

 

I gave you a tune from the woodland Sage

With his muddy feet and riddling page

Sang songs of the clever little thrush

So sweet it made the fellow blush

Still your shallow mouth too dry for fishes

Pinching pennies cast no wishes

 

So I brought you a jig I from a meadow Sprite

Chance met in a moonless hush of night

Danced like the grass on a summer’s day

With a swish and a whisper, like the cattails say

Yet entombed and inert were your want-less toes

Ten fallen dreams, buried in rows

 

Undaunted, I sculpted the shape of your stars

Hung galaxies like band-aids on Autumn scars

Painted hues of devotion on your slightest inhale

Wrote poetry to glorify your subtle detail

For naught was such lavish bestowal of bliss

Starving stood I, for want of a kiss

 

So with a lack of shame only the wild posses

I left you in squalor, selfish duress

What kind of soul starves amid a feast prose?

Who cannot see the butterflies pinned down in rows?

She says ‘Modern poetry doesn’t rhyme, it should be obscure’

I still write poems like paintings, to Hell with her

 

 

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