Guest Post: D. Diamond

Post 4

In today’s post, I share work by D. Diamond. A retired freelance writer, Ms. Diamond earned a B.A. in Anthropology at Northern Illinois University and is a member of the Stateline Nightwriters at the Beloit Public Library where she shares her past and current work—always powerful and evocative. Enjoy and share! 

Wild-maned Horse

I see you walking by the river

your wild-maned horse is trailing slow

the grey horse dappled in the sunlight

your grey eyes laughing through the snow.

Your kiss is sweet when you come to me

your touch as tender as the dawn

but when I wake, my arms are empty

your wild-maned horse now walks alone.


I see your face in summer moonlight

the wild-maned horse blows soft and low

your hair is silky through my fingers

your hands are gentle, soft and slow.

The picture changes and I’m weeping

you’re lying still and cold as stone

And when I wake, my arms are empty

Your wild-maned horse now walks alone.


And I don’t know if I can bear it

Your wild-maned horse is all that’s left

I know that he too will be leaving

like you, his presence is a gift.

In dreams we’re walking by the river

between us lovelight shimmers gold

but when I wake, my arms are empty

Your wild-maned horse still walks alone.

(A song written in 1993 which placed 4th in the 100 winners that were published in Writers’ Digest’s “Rhyming Poem” contest in 2011.)


June 25, 2017

My bouquet, today,

is one slim stem:

one stem of clover —

the fat, bright-pink clover

my Dad said was “sweet clover.”

I never knew if “sweet”

referred to the scent, or

the taste of the nectar

he said was in the

dainty tubular petals.

Either way… I was one

with the bees.

I hope they won’t miss

my bouquet, today.


Sept. 17, 2017

My bouquet —today

is a fantastical, pale greeny-white

turning to dusty-rose,

multi-blossomed, quadruple handful

on a single stem.

Far more dramatic than my beloved clover stem…

but, oh!!  Hydrangea !!!


Meteor Watch (3:45 a.m. 8-14-00)

A thousand voices greet me– night-singing

as, alarm-waked, I step barefoot

to the east door at moonset.

Tiny voices, to be sure,

but no less welcoming.

I gaze northeast.

The old mulberry and the younger green ash,

too close together, block most of the view.

But I watch, expectant…

desirous of the tiny thrill

fleeing across the pre-dawn sky.

The voices continue, ceaseless–

a creatures-orchestra of the night–

accompanying Cricket, lead singer-soloist.

But I’m too sleepy to listen long

or stare, patient for the flash.

The fireflies are out in full–

tiny meteors, to be sure–

but much closer to home.


© D. Diamond