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Remote Farm
remote farm
the unmowed hay higher
than the bale
Gedichte zum Thema: neglect
Gedichte zum Thema „neglect“ auf Poets.by.
Procrastinator
I have come to the height of neglect
the not-done not minded at all
give me a knock on the head
with a rose full of sorrow
my not-doing is made
out of hope and shame
Sic Transit
All alone, the table—
a plain thing of perfect service—
fell into neglect.
Ignorant how things go,
I fear war, not time.
again
speaking lies again
breaking hearts again
walking past again
never noticing
cry
never even noticing
'bye'
would you notice then?
Wait
She waited for him to meet
He never met
She waited for him to talk
He never spoke
She waited for him to text
He never did
She waited for him to love
He never cared
She got tired and walked away
He now waits .
Wither
I often ask myself,
am i wilting
because i am past my prime?
or because you did not
give me the one thing
that i need to survive,
even though i begged you
countless times to provide me
with it.
overlook.
how do my feelings somehow always get overlooked
just like me.
change
No calls
I understand
No texts
I understand
No time for me
I understand
But when you see me with someone else
I hope you understand
In Neglect
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom they were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.
Maumee Ruth
Might as well bury her
And bury her deep,
Might as well put her
Where she can sleep.
Might as well lay her
Out in her shiny black;
And for the love of God
Not wish her back.
Maum Sal may miss her
Maum Sal, she only
With no one now to scoff
Sal may be lonely....
Nobody else there is
Who will be caring
How rocky was the road
For her wayfaring;
In the Attic
Dust hangs clogged so thick
The air has a dusty taste:
Spider threads cling to my face,
From the broad pine-beams.
There is nothing living here,
The house below might be quite empty,
No sound comes from it.
The old broken trunks and boxes,
Cracked and dusty pictures,
Legless chairs and shattered tables,
Seem to be crying
Softly in the stillness
Because no one has brushed them.
No one has any use for them, now,
Yet I often wonder
If these things are really dead:
Mabel Osborne
Your red blossoms amid green leaves
Are drooping, beautiful geranium!
But you do not ask for water.
You cannot speak!
You do not need to speak—
Everyone knows that you are dying of thirst,
Yet they do not bring water!
They pass on, saying:
“The geranium wants water.”
And I, who had happiness to share
And longed to share your happiness;
I who loved you, Spoon River,
And craved your love,
Withered before your eyes, Spoon River—
Thirsting, thirsting,
Voiceless from chasteness of soul to ask you for love,