Walter Ruhlmann

An Eight-Month Winter

You did not miss much this year:
we had an eight-month winter.
	
The wind took all secrets away,
blown with the dust, the ashes.
	
The northern star kept hidden in the night,
veiled by the clouds, insatiable covers.
	
You spent three months wondering
whether the weather would clear,
	
you then spent a fortnight hoping
they would release you from blight.
	
They could not and you left for good,
breathing weakly, ineffectively.
	
Lungs swollen, heart broken, my hand
caressed your skin, your face, bravely.
	
The four following months I spent
holding back the dark swell from within.

 
© 2013 Walter Ruhlmann

Bereft

You could be my spy.
You could be my tiny, secret mouse
watching over any mischiefs they would perform, eyeing them all as they
deform and cheat and lie.
Yes, you could be my spy.
		
You could be my loon.
You could be my joking, jestering clown, jerking any time the grey skies
become too loud, laughing whenever the dark moods invade my room.
Sure, you could be my loon.
	
Oh, could you be my mate?
Could you say whether North or South inspire the most and if any place could
fit my forlorn mind, if life and love are both as torturous as death?
If you could be my mate.
	
When the wind blows in the ash trees
and their leaves conspire against me
then you could be my spy.
	
When the ocean rages wildly
and the huge waves splash over me
then you could be my loon.
	
Yet even if I felt alone
and were to be left on my own
all rules forbid you to become my mate.

 
© 2013 Walter Ruhlmann

Moulding

Idleness took me again that mid-afternoon in February.
A necessary nap when all I did was nought except taking the time to dwell in
the most desperate circles and mazes my gregarious brain cells have mapped
for me since we were born.
	
As I lie on the bed I observe the wardrobe all pine-wood and copper, its
hugeness frightens me and the flood I refrained for so long finally takes
power over me and knocks down all my might, every pieces of pride left
inside.
	
There is fog around us as you doze next to me, a grey veil, an unfathomable,
overwhelming despair, blurred visions and wet eyes, cheeks dripping, sheets
soaking, but the large piece of wood stands and stares, sun rays hit its
moulding.

 
© 2013 Walter Ruhlmann

BIO: Walter Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits mgversion2>datura and runs mgv2>publishing. Walter is the author of several poetry chapbooks and e-books in French and English and has published poetry, fiction and non-fiction in various printed and electronic publications world wide. Nominated for Pushcart Prize once. His latest collections are "Maore" published by Lapwing Publications, Belfast, 2013 and "Carmine Carnival" published by Lazarus Media, USA, 2013. His blog can be found at www.thenightorchid.blogspot.fr

A Little Poetry

Promote Your Page Too

BACK TO VORACIOUS VERSES