Ballad
My mother said to me tonight
That I am dead ten years
And bending o’er my crib she bled
A multitude of tears.
And yet I think that isn’t right
Oh mother you are wrong
Or ‘round about my bed would stand
Four angels deep in song.
For when the ground is white with frost
The angels fly and sing
But when the ground is wet with tears
The empty forests ring.
Oh mother, mother laugh for me
The earth is black and damp
And sing a final song for me
And light the final lamp.
Untitled Poem
What strange odors in this room
Of spices, thyme or bay?
A roll of lace with the womb
It is the heart’s decay.
Deal the angels in this hand
The marguerittes are dry
And at our side the Seasons stand
To stare with glassy eye.
© Mike McClure