Autumn Squalls Poem by Terence George Craddock (Spectral Images and Images Of Light)

I miss you! I miss you!
I miss you! Screams banshee wind!
Splatter spatter of rain gusted upon
frosted streaming window pane.
Nails drum strike homeless portal
blown battered stand tormented trees.

Weep wethered keening banshee wind
weep all-solemn ash-coloured shroud mist.
Fugitive. Flee. Rush On. Without Rest.
Forever searching forever transient
forever recalling memory achingly lost.
Sighing through winter woods haunting
is windblown soulless lost chilling call.

Try Try to hide. Hide.
Refuge! Never! Is place found!
To hide haunted heart within
affirmation entombed memory.
Like a beached soulless mariner
travel wethered wind ever howling
teeth ever biting biting biting
cold steel into blistered back.

Always hear same sound echo
high-heeled footsteps walking away.
Shimmers hair streams golden
about sublime strapless shoulders
body thins like ephemeral vapour
vanishing before last choked gasp.
Relentlessly receding leaving sight
while emptiness absolute gushes in
filling void with imploding atom
blasting misty melancholy entropy.

Try I Try To Forget Forget
bury mind among scattered leaves.
Seal lost traitor mine memory
within painless timeless vault.
To forge bile spleen anger hate
against name graven in red flame
searing enamoured spitted flesh.
Written in bleak stone pervading
chilling dying ember ghost wrought heart
beating across oppressively tormented mind.

Relentlessly love redeeming resurfaces
cracking jagged twisted force impacted ice.
Breaks broken ever further afflicted apart
ice-breaker thrusting precipitous fractured floes.
Breaking barrier thrown ice-fields between
love ever reborn renews. Agony. Rebirth.
Born ever naked again. Upon rising memory.
In each every enforced breath lurid brink
is miraculously born imagery love lorn
agony preceding bitter departure birth.

Wethered wind still is banshee blown
ever searching out own shroud soul.
While mine own love stormed soul
is carried forth upon fierce floodwaters.
Flame is lost visual vision. Floodgate tear
misted wax waning melted memory.
Residue hot. Wethered wind still sucks
dripping ripping forth lost wethered souls.

Lost water logged souls.
Hear their shroud desolate
haunting cries echo within.


Copyright © Terence George Craddock