Winter’s last bite

Winter’s last bite

by L. Stewart Marsden

The winter’s last bite I know
is but the waning throe of that icy king
who flings his frozen warnings
to all that stop and listen;
upon the glistning, slickened ground
he hurls insults at coming spring,
a thing he much detests,
that comes to wrest away his rule
with foolish openings;
challenges to bring low his might
and frighten him away until the half-year’s spent
and he comes back again to rent
the season from the fall and all
returns to normal once again.

 

Copyright © by Lawrence S. Marsden, 3 April, 2014

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The Love Trap

The Love Trap

by L. Stewart Marsden

If love’s a pit in which you fall
is it possible at all to scrape and claw
your way back to the top?

Or is it more a dark abyss
which, entered into quite amiss,
was thought to be a safe and shallow drop?

Those first few pangs of laboring love
are portents to the struggles of
idyllic joy ‘gainst stark reality.

For no mere mortal here
can stave off doubt or hide from fear —
to think love would exude such falsity.

There is yet no like emotion
whose depths compare to vast, deep oceans
that swell and crash upon the heart’s lone shore

And, pounding quite relentlessly
erodes the will to be left free
like castles in the sand and nothing more.

So as I stop and consider this
and how the innocent first kiss
can lead to such an endless spiraling down

I sound with all my will and might
my troth to fight such future plights
that would force me to my knees upon the ground.

So please, if you’ve an ear to hear
take note when love approaches near
lift up your guard — be wary to the end,

And do not trip or slip or fall
if you can, avoid at all expense and say,
“Can’t you and I stay just friends?”

The Autumn Burn

The Autumn Burn
by L. Stewart Marsden

Do you smell that?
That smarvelous smoldering smoke
of the burning leaves of autumn?
A funeral pyre to the soft days of summer —
A beacon to woo the wild winds of winter;
A pungent spice to sprinkle
on gourds and squash and pumpkins and mincemeats?
To nestle with in woolen socks and cosy Afghan blankets?

Do you smell that?

Ah, Autumn!

 

Ah, Autumn!
by L. Stewart Marsden

The Snap! of cheek red’ning chill;
The Crackle! of gold and sable bills underfoot;
The Pop! of jeweled hills in the late day sun;
I love the first bowlful of Autumn,
Poured out and ready to be
Devoured.