John Anthony Fingleton writes

Aftershock

The aftershock from the Heavens

Exploded in the sky,

Sending shafts of light

Searching out the earth.

A Quasar shaped composition,

Not unlike the Black Hole of the Gods,

That with one intake

Could annihilate all men.

I could only stand there,

Subserviently,

Absorbed in some ritual trance,

As if waiting for a shaman to arrive.

To chant in a low melodious tone,

A mediatory prayer -

That would calm the dead,

And keep this world alive.

-- MoxyQwerk

John Anthony Fingleton writes

A Room Lost to War

This room had not known voices

since the horsemen first appeared,

and the olive trees

were scattered by their storm.

Shuttered windows,

paint flakes tumbling,

siege door -

locked without a key.

Inside the dust of crumbling books,

with dog-eared pages -

mark the only trace of me.

Weathered by winter storms,

that passed unknown outside,

forming grotesque sculptures

in the snow.

an avalanche of marching men,

that stopped but never found;

a sea of different accents –

some with echoes of despair.

Inside the books kept crumbling,

a slow long dusty race –

to see which one of us, would be first to disappear.

 

The City -- Lori Nix

John Anthony Fingleton writes

Evening Swan

 

I watched the wild swan in the distance,

Spreading white flares of light,

Lifting the rays of the setting sun,

With the grace of its evening flight.

 

A ballet without music

A dance with breath of wings

A poem that held the line just right

A song that nature sings

 

It rose into the evening sky,

Without effort full of grace,

Before flying towards the wetlands island,

Then disappeared without a trace.
 Nude with Flying Swans -- Meredith Frampton