Matthew Thomas Donovan
Amateur poet, life long artist. more »
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Matthew Thomas Donovan Poems
The Remarkable Man
It always seemed so queer to me That all man’s life is like a flea’s That comes and falls to springly flowers And ticks away upon all hours
My Promise, Unkept
Do you remember the fifth of November, How it smiled and burnt out by noon? How the children laughed as all midnight collapsed On a perfect evening, too soon?
Patterns of boats docked on wet sand; oaken splinters. Dead trees give no relief from the licking embers of afternoon.
We Live, and We Die
If I die before I wake, And the sun is yet to break, Please hold my hand as you once did And vow the love you so long hid.
Two notes were caught in the breeze, Their paper wings spread as they Dragged shadows over grass. The flight of words
Jewels of the Poor
There is blackness in the sky Intersected by distant flames How famous now are burning clouds That exhale life and breathe again
Those who read the water and see the flowers, those who fast, and those who pray, come to these gardens on midsummer days, to the hollow trees,
In this sudden place of meeting thoughts are rushed and forms are fleeting. Words sound the way they had before
When I'm Dead
When I am laying cold and dead, Do not be frightened by my smile; I've left the confines of my flesh And raised my soul above this isle.
I took the train as evening fell to night, driving into the bright sun spots of morning light that broke the focus of street lamps and neon signs. In my eyes I saw a thousand particles filtered through glass,
Small talk fails to pass off borrowed lines of speech as words fall flat and meaningless on our tongues.
Waiting for Deliverance
He could drain his ears until all he heard Were the sounds of waters moaning past the trees, And in the evening, clear as day, The rushing tides curling up and falling.
The Faces in the Crowd
The sun is deposed by the moon as Another evening casts its ashen veil, Turning the sky into a faint cloth Punctuated by flickering sparks, quick and pale.
A Bitter Frost
Quotationsmore quotations »
Like the flowers who grew out of
your stolen matter,
I'm just a friendly reminder of the past,
one who remembers you and laughs
at memories we'll never share again
Speak the Word, by M.T. Donovan
Ashes rise from fires they lightReading Water, by M.T. Donovan
as the world finds itself
in its midnight hours;
dusty flowers, those blackened clothes,
brush the air like gentle coughs
Comments about Matthew Thomas Donovan
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
The Remarkable Man
It always seemed so queer to me
That all man’s life is like a flea’s
That comes and falls to springly flowers
And ticks away upon all hours
Remarkable is not a word
That comes to mind to be unheard
When speaking of humanity
But I ask, “What of sanity? ”
Are we not things upon a rock?
Of transcendent reason that we mock
To be ended, and born, a flock
With seconds ticking on our clock
Yet I can’t help but humbly see
Man’s place in this eternity
Of hopes and wishes unfulfilled
But dreams for such grounds to be tilled