How Swiftly Now Dark Closes In

by Greg Davis

How swiftly now dark closes in
and runs it’s fingers through our hair,
as shades of purple soon begin
to permeate throughout the air.
I must admit I was surprised
to find the lamps alight so soon,
like candle light, encapsulated,
beneath the rising of the moon.

How swiftly comes the wind so cool,
down from the north and from the sea,
that lingers over muddy pools
and wraps it’s tendrils around me.
I did not hear the wind crash down,
I only felt it’s creeping chill.
It flies about without a sound
and silently it sweeps each hill.

How swiftly do the trees turn red
and cast the green from all their leaves,
a golden crown upon their head
that dances with the autumn breeze.
I did not see the leaves let go
and throw their verdant youth away,
caught in the rolling ebb and flow
of autumns brisk and windy day.

How swiftly now do all things die.
How swiftly do the flowers fade
and pass away with gentle sigh,
as in a sea of leaves they wade.
I did not notice death draw near,
he moves about so quietly,
his tender call I did not hear
his gentle face I did not see

This wonderful poem comes from a friend on mine on Facebook. He is a fantastic poet, and I love the melancholy in this poem. He was gracious enough to let me re-post it here for you all to enjoy. The imagery he uses sparks my mind. I wonder if this is about lost youth, or lost love. A friendship maybe.

Ah, breathe in and enjoy the emotion.

A Promise

A promise to write; a promise to keep.  I am the keeper of promise.

How does one get something done, yet get nothing done at all?

Is that even a possibility?  Or does every action have a reaction?

Is it a capital sin to break promises to the self?  Does the self exist?

It’s safe to say I have a self.  Does that make the rest true?

A promise to write; a promise kept.  This poem is rather nice.

Nothing exists in the stories tell, but the stories mean everything.

Everything exists, and all things have come, will have gone, and again.

There is no wrong path to take.  All paths are walked by the mind.

Divinity in the moon, fresh tilled earth, and a roving brook.  Nothing lies here.

Ode to Smoking

Eleven twenty-seven a. m. my eyes groggily rove.

Desire ignights within; not even cold can sway my feet.

Eleven twenty-eight.  A lighter in my hand.

Inhalation, sweet release.  Finally, fully rested.

And suddenly, completely awake.  Blissfully awake.

One isn’t enough in the morning anymore.

The second is lit before the first is out.

Now the rush is gone.  You only feel the first one.

After that, all you feel is the void between your fingers.