sonnet

To He Whose Fingers

To he whose fingers itch to feel her breath,
Dragging her boldly, through tall fields of grass;
She whose flowering bough is stillborn death,
The graveyard plot's the last place she will pass.

Beauty is the short answer of the muse,
To meet the cymbal crash of longing storm;
It's headlong rush, to light the shortest fuse;
Frightening fury, to douse the trees lantern.

The last hour springs, like whistling in the wind
Pliant captive, makes her way toward him.
His grasp less tender, than were any vise
Broken in his grasp, her bright eyes grown dim.

If even love could be borrowed or stole-
All live in danger of filling that hole.

diamonddigger
There is a radical technique employed here that I recognize....and like... where words in one line (or images to be more precise) hint at the ones in the next line....in some form or other...a chord progression of word/images....culminating in THAT last word is a victory...to be sure.

Mariposa
I agree with all said, especially James. Well done.

Frank James Ryan Jr./FjR
Resplendent imagework is only superseded by virtually flawless structural architecting....Impressive Quilling. F j R

John Weber
Stark warnings abound on this work. Haunting in imagery and action.

Pendemic
When you leave a poem with last lines such as these, you make it really hard to forget. You are still and will always be one of my favourites on here.

Sandra Martyres
If even love could be borrowed or stole- All live in danger of filling that hole. Really memorable lines here Patti...I agree with James, you make us all green with envy - your poetic talent is to die for!!

carol
last line just makes this poem great