Matthew Thomas Donovan
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,
Speak The Word
And from your grave sprouts tall dark grass to show the world there is no death. You changed like leaves in blooming spring, and receded to the baited breath
In this sudden place of meeting thoughts are rushed and forms are fleeting. Words sound the way they had before
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
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
I think it fine, the dark night sky
So old, its gleaning beams pass by
To cast a line of fate once more
Upon this farmer’s earthly shore