Here is the latest installment of Poet’s Corner, presented by the Edmonds-based EPIC Poetry Group.

My Melancholy Lover

(A ghazal inspired by Youtube’s autoplay)

Snow is afraid of heat and of time—but let’s rewind.
I wrapped myself, head to toe, pretended to be fine—but let’s rewind.

Soft guitar strings stir delicate microphones to sing.
Digital drums reverberate a desk covered in dimes—but let’s rewind.

“Incomprehensible,” you whisper, as if Cthulhu’s arisen.
“What do you mean?” I say, “we’re only out of limes.”—but let’s rewind.

Alchemists used to write in codes of dragon myths,
or midgets who were really white phosphorous and rhymes—but let’s rewind.

Gilles de Rais was a monster, and The Depression made children starve.
Centuries of do or die compared to modern apocalyptical binds—but let’s rewind.

You proposed in the rain, drops pouring off well-washed daffodils.
We met as two strangers, Lylium and I—but let’s rewind.

Lylium Walsh

~ ~ ~ ~

3          Harvest π (Pi)

1          So,
4          Autumn has come
1          ‘round.
5          Harvest time suggests
9          harvest pies—apple, pumpkin, blueberry.
2          Rain comes.
6          Cold weather means warm food,
5          encourages hearths.
3          Warm drinks, shared.
5          Social or alone,
8          we are more than the sum of our parts.
9          Food was the first discovered science.
7          Social or solitary,
9          we’re standing on the backs of giants.

Lylium Walsh

~ ~ ~ ~

To Saint Bona of Pisa:

Can you guide my path as I put
my family to rest?

You, who traveled to Spain nine times,
marching a thousand miles
to Santiago de Compostela
and then back home.
You who led other pilgrims along
the El Camino.
You, who set off on your tenth, but
died at home in Pisa.

Please, guard as I visit the bones
laid at Mt. Tahoma
Watch my journey to Goldendale,
and to Newberg’s outskirts
Protect my flight to Niagra,
then west to Nashwauk,
Hoyt Lakes, Hibing, Itasca County’s
empty mining country

I know you watch over pilgrims,
not the dead or grieving.
All of mine died at peace, in bed;
at hospital or home.
Their ashes still sit on mantles,
bedside tables, dressers.
Only one thrown to the ocean
so the grave stone travels.
Only her and older, distant
relatives laid to rest.
Only they are embraced by stone
or soothed by nature’s grace.
No one else can be journeyed to.
No one else has been let go.

Please, can you guide me as I put
my family to rest?

Lylium Walsh

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lylium Walsh is a poet, storyteller, and fiction author based in Edmonds. She can be found at lyliumwalsh.com and currently leads Writing Rainbow, a monthly meet up for  LGBTQIA+ writers that is generously supported by the Seattle Storyteller’s Guild, the Edmonds Library, Edmonds NAC, Snohomish County LGBTQI, and the Pride Foundation.