The Fragile Inn
The morning clouds scatter over the earth
like a vapor, chimney smoke hovers then
grasps the curling tendrils and sets sail.
Men of dust are moving about with hushed
voices saying, “the grave is never full” and
“it’s a sad truth that folks gotta move out to
make room for babes moving in.”
The little guy, moaning for a strong hand
to reach down and save him, runs out the
door to bury his smile in the vacant flower
box. His sister sits on the front stoop with
Goodnight Moon and their mother’s treasure
box on her lap looking brave in her black dress.
“The Passing Voice”
She’s sitting on the line
I know she’d rather be on the other side
of life’s woundings.
Thin gray eyes, willowy fingers—
a lost prize of vanity,
a long breathy silence,
with a wilting slow voice
tells me she must watch the dead people.
I ceased shivering years ago;
her mind is like a chill wind
blowing through the forest shade.
With her broken wings
she has endured without
conquest or reward.
She is a child, beautiful,
ageless, shining like rain,
sing-song and sanguine.
A weary pause—
then she says she feels empty.
I weep with the trembling undersong
of this single cloudless moment.
Oh, how I will miss my rough and ragged
my tough and gentle
Our Lost Jungle challenges us to randomly
take a slice of writing and erase bits of it to create
something new. Erasure poetry is just what it sounds like
and can be quite liberating.
My son had been reading Romeo and Juliet for school
and since that was the closest thing to me, I opened to the first page. I didn’t quite create a new theme, but it was interesting to see what Shakespeare might be like condensed into a free form.
Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows death
Do with their
bury their parents’ strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,
And the continuance of their parents’ rage,
but their children ‘s end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage; toil
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our
shall strive to mend.
My erased version: Shake/Speared love
we lay ancient
love of rage
which children toil
the marriage of our silent saturnine moods.
between the first goodnight kiss
and the final brush of breath
eyelash to eyelash
till death do us
Wordsmith Studio Poetry Prompt: Love
the coffee is bitter
but I sip it anyway
she opens the needlepoint
on her lap and says
she’s going to finish it.
some day, she is alone in
the company of self,
hurricane sandy is sweeping
the ocean, the TV drones in its hardness
and she is stuck in the eye of the
needle attempting to thread gold
and I am watching her
moment by moment.
Written for Writer’s Digest PAD day 3 prompt—write something scary
and for 1sojournal’s PAD prompt—photo prompt
All my November Poem-A-Day offers will be written under the
umbrella of watching my mother descend into the clawed sands of Alzheimer’s.