Jonathan Finch
<a href="https://pixabay.com/en/mummy-dark-red-night-darkness-2677036/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>
What else but trouble when the night returns
in endless weary ecstasy of memories
that pale the skin, touch the heart
with something less? It never has been
then but now in knowledgeless travelling
within and out of those most intricate moments
the whispered yeses once
weary to ask
when sweeping leaves Rome chokes and works
fever of fumes and journalism, kiosks and sirens,
weary to ask already answered over desolate spaces
when night returns in weary endless ecstasy
of memories, minuets, gavottes,
such lovely faces, “once in special,
In thin array”.
Time takes its toll
whispers of love in forgotten places
Rome’s dead cats
and looking there we saw Rome’s Colosseum
smelling of urine.
What else but trouble when the night returns
in endless weary ecstasy of memory?
<a href="https://pixabay.com/en/the-death-lovos-fear-death-2527827/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>
You have a beautiful expression! Your words flow like water
Well, you’re very kind. I used to write poetry, haven’t done so for years. The last “occasion” was my father’s last few months when he lay in bed. Most of the poems come from me as a youngish man. Thank you again for your kind comment.
Impressive. You are also a good poet.