Wednesday 5 November 2014

3 Poems by d.n. simmers

              Demons & Snow

                         " Skyward soar the whirling demons
                              Shrouded by the falling snow."
                                                   Alexander Pushkin

               Walking as the shadows fill in and night comes with mist.
               The snow has left today and the sky is mottled with
               dark grey and clouds sag.

               Heavy against the darkness.

               Feet are moving in a set pattern and they are filled with
               hesitation and delay.

               The afternoon was full of children's laughter and
               their tears and now as only the night is

               Silence is at peace with this time as feet move
               up the path and back
               inside the door of home.


                    " Winds have risen. They have
                     pierced up like a spear."
                              Rumann mac Colmain

          The beach is broken. Bits of twigs. Large trunks.
          For storms have lived here, awhile.

          They came with conquering bands of winds, rain
          and snow, that moved along the lined edges.
          Taking branches and small shrubs to an early grave.

          Now, a battlefield forgotten, all have moved away.

          The quiet is bring back gulls. their search between the
          seaweed and the shore, for dead crabs and small fish.

          The morning was cold. Brought smitten fog with
          rain. Following, like an old dog, with silver tail.
          That has dropped some snow, between the hollows,
          of newly cropped logs. Corpses. In frost's early light.  


                     " Like a sheet of cellophane
                          or a sky of alcohol"
                                 William Logan

             Waking up, with a hangover on a Saturday.
             Having to build a fence when we were living

             Snow flakes in the head
             frozen flesh of the pickled dead.

             Warm up the hands and get coffee in the heart
             and begin.

             One section at a time. Only do two , a weekend.
             So the booze could flow through the veins
             after twelve noon.

             The numbness of getting through the day
             would slow down. The dreams
             like those as a child, coming back

              with each bang of the hammer, each nail
              in the coffin , of the morning.


d.n. simmers is a editor with Fine Lines. He is in the current Poetry Salzburg and in an anthology in
Bulgaria, Prizont Lieterar Contemporan with translations in Rumanian and Spanish. He was in the
125 year Anniversary of Vancouver put out by subterrain. He is in the current or will be in Red River
Review, Potomac, Prairie Journal, Nomad's Choir as well as multiple issues of the Storyteller.
He is working on his third book of poetry and has six chapbooks published.

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