The white geranium was a birthday gift
It flowered profusely all  last summer long
When winter came, I hid it in  the  hedge
To protect it and its loved life prolong

In spring I took it out to give it light.
Already flowers were visible and large
And so it lived  upon my  patio steps
I hoped that many buds would soon emerge

My eyes were set upon  some other world
I did not look at it for  seven weeks
The same large flowers were there yet looking grey
At last ,I realised  my mind  had been asleep

I picked it up to pull it from the pot
It broke in half ; it was   man  made,oh fool!
Yet for an entire year, it had me tricked;
As if I mistook tin for precious jewels.

Oh, absent mind; oh cruelly confused gaze.
Oh,woman blind;how foolish are  your days!

In temperate climates ,seasons ends are blurred.
So many days by  two seasons are shared.
Even by midsummer in  high June,
Many flowers have gone,have gone  too soon

Yet Michaelmas is marked by daisies tall
And roses still  show blooms  throughout  the Fall.
Mysterious, new and precious  buds are born
Will such  joy  help  us  bear our thoughts forIorn

In hollow  winter  depths of  ice and cold,
When dark,short days  so  heavily   unfold
Then we know with  Fall and summer gone ,
Dark earth shields seeds  until their time shall come

The paradox we face is how to judge
When   anguished hearts and faces by tears smudged
Tell us life’s too painful to go on.
Then from  hearts cracked open,  life   spurts forth again.

The honeyed  words invented as we loved
Now have no other  speaker but myself
Lost, unique, the husband, once beloved
The honeyed  words  invented  as we loved
Now, from my vocabulary they are shoved.
I no longer speak these words,this unique wealth.
The chosen  words  invented as we loved
Now have no other   listener but myself

What constitutes us  is the loving gaze
We’re held and seen  and so we know ourself
Long shadows from the past and childhood days
Connect us to the life   in us displayed
Words come later,phrase by holy phrase.
Freely given love’ s our  human wealth
What constitutes us  is the loving gaze
We’re held and seen  and so we know ourself

Enriched with age, we  suffer from the cold,
Yet torrid heat’s   a danger to the heart.
The passion that a youthful one  just moulds
Would kill  some  humans old and over-bold.
Oh.  happy mean;oh centre that can hold!
This will give  us one fine place to start.
Enriched with age,  we  learn to deal with cold
Yet torrid heat  still threatens fragile hearts

Note:

Slouching towards Bethlehem by W B Yeats  has the line,The centre cannot hold

The sun burns like  the Richmond blacksmith’s fire
Fierce flames   are  gleaming by   the sides of  clouds
The weather forecast is constructed by a  liar
To hide the  knowledge  of funereal pyre
The Social Contract  melts ; the flames fly higher
The dead are gathered  in;the fields are ploughed
Silently we say goodbye, without a choir
The sun burns like  the Richmond blacksmith’s fire
Fierce flames   are   glowing  by  the sides of clouds

When my mind is still confused by sleep
I’m relaxed and I’m  full  of  hopeful dreams
The  sudden  shocks of  memory  make me  weep
The feelings  of my love are strong and  deep
But when with strangers I must be discreet
Avoid the talk of men and  wily schemes
When my mind is still confused by sleep
I am relaxed with  head  of joyful dreams

For  some  invite me to a dating site
And some  avoid me,   dreading I may tempt
They fear my glowing eyes so clear and  bright
Still visible without electric light
They think I’ll  pull  their man  with all my might
So now I try to look wild and unkempt
Lest  some  invite me to a dating site,
And some reject me  fearing I will tempt.

http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/triolet.htm

Late summer weighs us down with sullen heat

Even cats and dogs sit still as stones

Gone are early flowers with fragrance sweet

If there is bad poetry   and good poetry how about grey poetry?

The poem was not a diamond  nor a pearl
Nor was it even moonstone  they surmised
But  in the weekly news, it got a mention
Which gained the author looks of great surprise.

The postman and the milkman lingered longer
The  dustmen were all eager to commend
They rescued other writing from recycling
They told the author it was in demand.

Or if not now, then maybe in the future;
Like Ted Hughes, we ought not to destroy.
The driver’s  done an OU course in writing
Everything from Pontefract to Troy.

The postman wrote us verses  every Xmas
The milkman gave us readings from our palms.
The dustmen read the Times  if it was folded
If it was creased, then they were up in arms.

Save letters, lists and diaries when handwritten;
Even the old  table where you write
Perhaps your  golden pen from Haifa
And the Esterbrook which knew your daily plight.

I don’t know where Sylvia’s stuff was quartered
But now it fills  great rooms  with gravitas
Innumerable academics sift it
Has all her suffering brought her down to this?

So build a shed and make it dry in winter
Get heavy duty bags from Shangri La
Every single sentence you have written
Put it there before you cross the Bar

In your Will,do mention your grey  verses
Leave all to the University of Rome
If they    don’t really  want  to shelve them
Make a university  of your home.

Writing poems is easy,in the end
For they exist already in the tongue.
We  remove excess, and inappropriate,  mend.
Hence what is left cannot be written wrong.

The longer and more complex is the poem
The easier for the poet to  sculpt to shape
But brief and succinct verses  hide, or roam.
Empty is my paper and I  mope.

Or are words  a  mere random heap  of stones
A poet ,  a builder of a drystone wall?
Skeleton,  or heap of  beggars’ bones
Awaiting  flesh , for which desire they call?

Maybe a hidden body in the woods,
A hand protrudes and dogs run all a-bark
Lazarus waiting  for  his unique   God
Who alone  provides the  living spark

Frankenstein or Saviour, who can tell?
Construction  may obscure  and then  too late;
Both  good and evil can  be written well.
A tyrant’s spell  makes ruin   seem like fate

I can see you in  the  distance in the   meadows
You’re  walking all alone,  though it is late
I’m watching you and wondering what to do.
I  always keep to roads   that run    dead straight.

I’m sorry if you’re weary and forlorn
I’m afraid to leave the beaten track.
I even have a sat nav  on my bike
Perhaps if I  shout  out,you will come back.

I think you should  avoid the fields and hills
For you are old and stiff and  mad
I phone you on your Windows  phone again
To tell you ,you are being very bad.

toBut you asked me to  join you in the grass
To see wildflowers and  in blue   heather   lie
But  can’t you  see the dangers ever near?
Is it weakness   on my side or am I wise?

I once lay down   myself on   heathery moors
The Cleveland Hills, so beautiful a view
But later I saw I ‘d edged a cliff
So near to falling off,I never knew.

Since then I’m careful where I  walk
I  study charts and  maps and feel afraid
I get the weather forecast ,wear a mac
But is it a wise decision I have made?

I see that  you are sinking in a bog
I vault the gate and speed across the grass
I grab you and I pull you to  dry earth
I always did admire you,canny lass.

Oh,I’ll take you in my arms and get you warm
I won’t admonish you  or make a pass
I’ll give you hot  tea,check if you are harmed.
I love,I love ,I love my canny lass.

As brave as the old Vikings in  longboats
As wild as a cat demon in the hills
As  bright as a bronze shield in Northern sun
Oh,canny lass, be mine, please say,I will.

.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poems/grief/page-1/14033/

Gently dancing in the sun
Wildflowers grow,
they bloom,
are gone.

With no thoughts,they have no cares;
Yet their lives are gentle prayers.
May I walk in such a way
That I am alive to this all day.

So I see with widening view,
And joy and sorrows embrace too.
Then my time will come like yours...
And of us both nothing  endure.

As to the earth our bodies go,
All are one;it shall be so.