Poems of Today

A snow white book sitting on a brown plank with tiny yellow and purple flowers sitting in between its pages.
Photo by Ksenia Makagonova on Unsplash

cold. It’s quit cold here, not physically but more spiritually. The further lack of human connection has left my heart cold, and my skin cries for the break of day. Even the human interactions I have are cold, instead of being warm and filled with life, we have become soulless and unaffiliated with meaning. Oh I long for childhood, when the warm summer days would touch my skin, and the music would heal my wounds. Music is only morphine to me now, numbing the pain just enough to survive another night. I do not wish to survive another day, I wish to live once again. u/Uniquelypotatos

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Dear lover, I hope you find the summer air again, as I know our love blossomed in the winter. And I hope you find someone that intoxicated you as you did me; your breath enough to make me inebriated in the late hours. and I beg that you never succumb to a bitter love, the love that makes you cringe as your heart continues to long for mine, but most importantly; I wish you the best life. whether your heart be intertwined with mine or with another’s willing heart, I only wish that. nothing less. nothing more.

Now that time seems all mine

and no one calls me for lunch or dinner,

now that I can stay to watch

how a cloud loosens and loses its color,

how a cat walks on the roof

in the immense luxury of a prowl, now

that what waits for me every day

is the unlimited length of a night

where there is no call and no longer a reason

to undress in a hurry to rest inside

the blinding sweetness of a body that waits for me,

now that the morning no longer has a beginning

and silently leaves me to my plans,

and all the cadences of my voice, now

suddenly I would like prison.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush.

I am the swift uplifting rush.

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

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