 The Scent of Death by Ann Neo Celeste The Scent of Death
Gregorian chant, I hear requiem! Cold Shiver Grim Reaper A farmer harvesting crops Sheathed in black bags Past rigor mortis, feast for maggots, mobbed by flies fate of struggle inhumation's forbidden after life found another time, another place
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 Heavy Cloud Autumn River by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Heavy Cloud
There are things one cannot escape from, a heavy cloud, love’s embrace, the tiger’s claw. Eternal peace comes for us all, in the form of a cloud, heavy with rain, to the old and young, the dumb and wise, too heavy to be lifted when it is your time.  Skin Memory Author John Sibley Williams by Jarad Johnson Poetry and I have a love hate relationship; when we get along, it’s fantastic, but when we disagree, we really don’t like each other. For example, Poe and I are great friends, but Bukowski and I are not on speaking terms. It’s hit and miss is what I’m trying to say. Poetry is distinctly different than reading a novel. A book may leave you with ideas and messages to think about, but poetry to me always seems to keep its secrets close. It’s up to the reader to interpret whatever message we may or may not glean, and the interpretation either hits you or sometimes takes much longer than for prose. Poetry is an introspective process, and I often find that the messages interpreted from it are specific to the reader. But perhaps I’m just a lazy reader. I do like a story that buttons itself up. This little collection of poems is definitely a hit for me. It’s published by Backwaters Press. I appreciate the name, and the contents within. Titles for poetry books are very important. I need to have a starting word or concept. There are so many poems I loved in this collection, and I would like to go through them one by one. Unfortunately I can’t, but I have chosen four poems that really struck a chord with me. Instead of just a cursory glance, and a recommendation, I would like to really get into a few of these.
In the Cemetery
In the cemetery, I was standing on my knees, reading verses of the holy book to the tombs I was praying with tears on my cheeks until the graveyard stopped me and asked me if I was reading verses or reading sorrows with an emotionless face, he asked to repeat I started reading again and, his face was getting red as his eyes were dropping my unrhymed tears he stopped me with anger and screamed out why more grieves, why more death, and less peace I responded to him, why did hope sold us to traitors why life is struggling with us, why did the wars rape us shamelessly we cried together as he was saying that he’s listening to spirits weeping with us, as the clouds will rain again he asked me again, why our world is no longer bright instead, it’s full of darkness and lots of bloody cuts our grandparents were the farmers, who lift the sunshine and brunt themselves to death, just to protect the seeds our mothers stole the moon from the wall of the night they hid in their coffins and the stars after our fathers turned the rainbow into a solider in the zone of death and made the snow into a drinkable water to survive |
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