Dead Flowers
Dead flowers in the trees
fall from branches
like the blood from broken lips.
Dead flowers in the grasses,
petals curling
like the legs of upturned spiders.
Dead flowers on the sidewalk,
sun-scorched and bleaching
like the unfortunate wayward slug.
Dead flowers in a hand,
anchored with a burden
like the bones of buried loved ones.
Dead flowers on a tablet,
the memory of color fading
like the whispers lost in wind.
As I was preparing my manuscript for entry into a poetry chapbook contest, I came across this poem. It reflects upon my childhood, to a time when my brother and I ran away from home and hid in the cemetery. As today is also my brother’s birthday, I thought it would be nice to share this poem in lieu of a gift (since I’m broke and can’t afford to buy gifts). Happy Birthday, my brother. And to the rest of you, I hope you also enjoy!
To the dead we go!
Brother said we had to run,
run, run away from home!
Where to go?
Anywhere but home!
To the dead we go!
Along the graveled road,
through the woods we trek;
over the barrel bridge
to cross the dried-up creek.
Beyond the old lagoon,
with towering weeds
and whispering clatters;
traversing trodden trails,
across the fields and thickets—
To the dead we go!
We looked at gravestones,
spoke of dead things,
and how we shouldn’t
have tread where dead were buried.
With light of day then fading,
ghosts swarming in a field,
angered and vengeful,
we made a swift return
back through woods to home—
To the dead we go!
Marrowroot 