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 Tamara Beryl Latham - The Poet      30429 Poems Read


Willows bend
with weight of stressful times,
near the stonewalled garden
flanked with light.

Their voice; the wind,
whispers joyless notes,
then shrieks
the Banshee's song
within my head.

Ravens' perch,
in lieu of flight, content
to watch
as evil wraiths
eclipse my mind,

where I, committed,
flee the forest maze,
whose rubber trees
distinctly scope my gaze,

while raging storms
mask full an opiate sun,
then electrify
to quell delirium.

Shadows dance,
jump through
the artist's palette
of tranquil hues,

splashing colors
of the spectrum
on my thoughts,
then leap
in a kaleidoscope
of hope.

Jonquils sway,
as images serene
direct my feet,
along a snake-like path
to garden's edge,

where I,
no longer marked
by feral glares,
cool and haunting,
hard, fixated stares,

view "Veronica Spicata,"
single bloom,
within a Monet landscape
titled "Life."

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