….

Cold is the color

    of mid-winter hoar;

gold is a feeling

    I felt once before.

Nineteen-seventy

    I hereby declare

the end of involvement,

   unfairness of war.

So near and so far,

    too close for some,

one dearly departed

    from what once begun

as gold, now cold,

    in the hot humid sun:

This is your weapon;

    that was your gun.

The child knows his pleasure,

    when the man looses fun.

©2013, Marvin Loyd Welborn

Stay your course, now do not trim

Your sails to reach me drifting

I want neither warmth nor rescue

From the autumn waves’ crashing

–

But to know the great and empty cold

Of the sea seeping through my body

To look upon the final visage of

Heaven and water’s wedded unity

–

For my bridal suit is yellowing

In a chest of cedar, miles away

With flowers from my darling fair

Pressed and preserved against decay

–

I want neither warmth nor rescue

I have chosen the coffin of the sea

For there is no precious Aurélie

Waiting in the window for me

© 2012 Elizabeth Cook