Hard Times/ Grief Does Not Say Anything

I am tired.
So very tired
of making it all fit.

I suppose it’s called
grief.

It wears you down,
into a rounded rock
in a dull dumb landscape,
where once was
an exhilarating mountain range,
lush and forested.

Everything, or something like it,
has happened before -
and why bother anyway?

Just to walk away
from the flowers, grass, the seagulls and people,

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poem by Iain Trousdell
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Creativity/ Like My Father On His Deathbed

Poetry is not about words.
Poetry flows
from experiences that hover beyond words,
a shining memory sounding muffled
hidden behind a familiar door.

The words of a poem
are the funeral of my old father,
magnificent, feisty and watchful,
available to the last
through indefinable gestures
and a shining silence
existent somewhere else now
as poetry is, the real poem,
not the heavy coffin of the print.

Poetry pines for it’s lost world,
its hidden home,
like a swan still singing on a plate.

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poem by Iain Trousdell
Added by Poetry Lover
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