A Gift for the Romantic

A Gift for the Romantic

It is in the subtlety
And not the blunt insult,
The threat and not the onslaught;

The implied and not the explicit.

It is in the first gleaning,
remembered scents of Spring
And not the direct,

Overhead heat of Summer.

The autumnal dread
And not the dead of Winter;
The sweet dream of sleep

And not the bleak morning after.

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poem by John Tansey
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THE GALACTIC SPIRALS OF DEAD LEAVES...Part I

THE GALACTIC SPIRALS OF DEAD LEAVES

I

OCTOBER IS A GREGARIOUS MONTH

October is a gregarious month;

all things seeking shelter.

Watching the tidal ebb of twilight
drawing its last breath of birds,

I know winter is approaching;

Reversing the spin of planets
like baseballs, having arced since spring,

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poem by John Tansey
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AFTER THE BALL......In two voices, Mother & Son

Son:
After the breakdown,
euphoric fits in a room
lit by one candlelight of pretense
denying the end of marriage,
you twirled by yourself on the floor.

Softly shading your moods
to the subdued warmth of lamps
cloaked in the hue of a man,
have you always denied
the life that direct light imposed?

Floating through the rooms
veiled in scarves
and talismans of tarnished silver,
was it illusion you followed after
in the trailing ripple of curtains?

Mother:

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poem by John Tansey
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Parallels Of Mortality In Autumn.....

Something epic, looms
over the dismal gray cold
of Autumn's
overwhelming utter sadness
in the vanquished heart;
that slows summer's combustible pace
to a stillness,
mirrored in the pensive faces
of those
awed at all the Autumn dead
that lay leaved at their feet.

Something pale, plumes
above an Autumnal brush fire
doused,
by this mid November's rain;
vaporous gray clouds
pall bear this vestige
of the barren heart's
sloughed colors;

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poem by John Tansey
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Parallels Of Mortality In Autumn...

PARALLELS OF MORTALITY IN AUTUMN

Something epic, looms
over the dismal gray cold
of Autumn's
overwhelming utter sadness
in the vanquished heart;
that slows summer's combustible pace
to a stillness,
mirrored in the pensive faces
of those
awed at all the Autumn dead
that lay leaved at their feet.

Something pale, plumes
above an Autumnal brush fire
doused,
by this mid November's rain;
vaporous gray clouds
pall bear this vestige

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poem by John Tansey
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