The Last Poem
Rainy night, ominous silence,
given way to another poem,
written by candle light; inspired
by loneliness.
A face so haggard and worn,
withered hand stroking the
white flowing beard; even the
photographs seem to peer
off in sheer indifference.
The television refuses to work,
and the telephone never rings,
all his friends are dead anyway;
his family are so distant and so
forgetful.
The old man mutters
"Where have all the wonderful
jazz and classical radio stations
gone?"
He sighs, as he places his pen
down on the old oak desk and
blows the nub of a candle out.
He coughs a few times before
he crawls into his rickety bed,
telling the photo of his recently
deceased wife of 50 years that
he loves her.
The rain fell into a new morning,
but the old man never awoke to
complete his poetic masterpiece;
and yet; the rain kept on falling
and falling; like tear drops from
heaven.
Observations
The city, a heartbeat,
pulsating at night,
glistening as a jewel,
lover’s hands interwoven.
This sofa, with her,
seems like a quiet
heaven, where words
need not be spoken.
A bridge hovering over
glistening onyx river,
reverberations of busy
day that had been; yet
now expired.
Time ticks into the past
upon a sullen faced clock,
it lulls the birds into sweet
dreams upon their tree
branch sanctuary.
Pages of a novel, are read
and methodically flipped
over, between index finger
and thumb; a hypnotic
rhythm; ensuing.
Observations are made,
memories summoned,
as the words are woven
and slowly take their shape.
Wayne Russell is a creative jack of all trades, master of none. Poet, rhythm guitar player, singer, artist, photographer, and author of the poetry book Where Angels Fear via Guerilla Genius Press, it is currently available on Amazon.
Rainy night, ominous silence,
given way to another poem,
written by candle light; inspired
by loneliness.
A face so haggard and worn,
withered hand stroking the
white flowing beard; even the
photographs seem to peer
off in sheer indifference.
The television refuses to work,
and the telephone never rings,
all his friends are dead anyway;
his family are so distant and so
forgetful.
The old man mutters
"Where have all the wonderful
jazz and classical radio stations
gone?"
He sighs, as he places his pen
down on the old oak desk and
blows the nub of a candle out.
He coughs a few times before
he crawls into his rickety bed,
telling the photo of his recently
deceased wife of 50 years that
he loves her.
The rain fell into a new morning,
but the old man never awoke to
complete his poetic masterpiece;
and yet; the rain kept on falling
and falling; like tear drops from
heaven.
Observations
The city, a heartbeat,
pulsating at night,
glistening as a jewel,
lover’s hands interwoven.
This sofa, with her,
seems like a quiet
heaven, where words
need not be spoken.
A bridge hovering over
glistening onyx river,
reverberations of busy
day that had been; yet
now expired.
Time ticks into the past
upon a sullen faced clock,
it lulls the birds into sweet
dreams upon their tree
branch sanctuary.
Pages of a novel, are read
and methodically flipped
over, between index finger
and thumb; a hypnotic
rhythm; ensuing.
Observations are made,
memories summoned,
as the words are woven
and slowly take their shape.
Wayne Russell is a creative jack of all trades, master of none. Poet, rhythm guitar player, singer, artist, photographer, and author of the poetry book Where Angels Fear via Guerilla Genius Press, it is currently available on Amazon.
