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Étoiles

Demain soir peut être

Pour la nuit des étoiles

Boire une tisane seule

Sur un plaid au parc

- Mathilde Fauve

Sans eau trois jours

Sans nourriture une semaine

Sans livre deux heures

C'est mon maximum

- Mathilde Fauve

The Grand Tour Finale

This post concludes the refined limerick batch

Ieatedthepurpleone kindly dispatched.

With a sigh in our hearts and minds in the gutter,

We'll patiently wait 'till you write another.

John Lee's Dead

John lee’s dead and the motorcade winds toward the old hill and its chapel choked with vines.

The clouds are dark and swollen. There’s tears in his widows eyes, and ravens deck the branches of the trees as they roll by.

As the gates groan wide the clouds begin to burst and the sky throws down its spears, a thousand tears on John Lee’s hearse.

Now a hundred dark umbrellas like black flowers bloom around a pit that yawns to swallow one more memory in the ground.

And John Lee’s window’s weeping in a veil of black lace (Though some detect a smile, If only just a trace).

The priest, he babbles nonsense about heaven, God, and sin as the casket slowly lowers in the low and mournful din.

The dearly beloved who are gathered here today will forget death in an hour as they drink their tears away.

And John Lee’s funeral’s over. He’s down too deep to dream, and only grass will go there and not until the spring.

© JM Tiffany

The Mender's Prayer

Light, don’t shine too brightly. Dark, don’t be so dim. Love, come to us nightly, Death, don’t be so grim.

God, don’t be so heavy. Devil, just go away. Wisdom, find us rightly. Fools, don’t be so gay.

Hope, don’t be so distant. Fear, don’t be a friend. Laughter, keep on laughing. What’s broken, time to mend.

© JM Tiffany