Poem: John Francis Tracey – Gedichte

Nimbus, I.

 

Oh, how I have shied from my thoughts

thus far, taunted.

 

Reminded by my eyes

each time they fall

upon a cloud;

 

How fast they flit and sweep,

dragging deeply,

yet I hold no esteem in grasping them.

 

John Francis Tracey

 

 

 

Pluvia, I.

 

The dried rhododendron sits still in the sill,

my face pale in comparison.

 

Within this humid hour, after a rather hastened

shower

of rain, leaving the notes –

staccato, spiccato

upon my window. Notes,

ones that reminded me of her,

somehow.

 

Coming with, a reminder of my own

temperance; I have not,

whether voluntary, truly expressed my feelings through

paper nor pining

in quite some time.

 

Within this humid hour, my emotions

sour.

 

All in the hope

of allowing this rain to seep

into the soil,

ripening the raw and rotting the rote;

 

What might grow?

 

John Francis Tracey

 

 

 

Sal, I.

 

It is of a just character,

to not burden oneself, nor others

with pungent anger.

 

Of such a thing,

one must not allow it

to be seeded;

a rampant rake.

 

Do not busy oneself –

treat the soil

as the figs foretold the Romans.

 

Now to concern ourselves

for a moment, with

dread,

despair,

solemnity;

 

I have not yet found such a potent mineral.

 

John Francis Tracey

John Francis Tracey