no flowers for anyone

A Widow’s Lament in the Age of No Flowers

Late on the night of January’s frost,

I watched my husband pay the final cost.

They brought him wreathes, they brought him song,

they crowned his rest, they called it strong.

 

But I cannot forget the other ground,

where no flowers bloom, no bells resound.

The Romanov children, stripped and slain,

their bodies hidden in Siberian rain.

 

Graveless, cancelled, rubbed from unscrolled page,

yet their voices cry against the rage.

No cenotaph, nor a marble stone;

unperturbed, unmarked and overgrown.

 

And I, the widow, dare not tell

my comrades of this thought of Hell:

What if the Faith they sought to kill

still tolls its bell, relentless, shrill?

 

For one is celebrated, banners unfurled,

while others are banished from this world.

Yet stars above, with hostile light,

judge both alike in endless night.

 

.

Reviews

[Michael Sun Bear]

Frederick, this is beautifully written. Not for the first time you have me going to google, refreshing my memory of the history of the Romanov’s.. I am still a bit lost. Who is the narrator in your poem?

By the way, I love the wide range of your writing, never know where you’ll take me next.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Oh, sorry. That was the widow of Lenin, at his death.

[Michael Sun Bear]

Thank you,makes total sense

[Soren]

Historic, emotional, mixed drama of reality with imagined mythical beginnings make for great poetry and this one is classic in style and form. Loved it my friend

[redd Brick Keshner]

It was much fun🕊️🙏🏻

[Thomas W Case]

Brilliant work...powerful and sharp.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Thanks, Thomas. Much appreciated 🙏🏻🕊️