What he left behind in the smiling sun
He dared to bury ours in the silty soils of the deep Skane forest—my father’s father’s father—
from a peasant’s straw bed to servant’s hayloft to the sweating vomit in the hull of a steamer cargo to a weedy Nebraskan soddy dripping with snakes—
an earth dweller with his kin and livestock, digging a new life, hiding inside a new world
not unlike the one he left.
But with a new name.
~~~
Day 24
PAD: “The truth about __________”
Theme: Alzheimer’s/dementia
Image: Harmony
Manipulated Digital Painting by Elizabeth Crawford
I am paste—
on a plastic tab stuck to paper kangaroo
rear-ends.
I am band-aid—
on ripped scalp and wounded knee.
I am pink medicine and nebulizer tubing,
I am dandelion milk and clover-gemmed
forever I am—
soil•stone• soap•shore
•army men• pretend•hairspray•Amen.
I am collector—
of doubts and tears,
recorder of wasted brilliance.
I am stringer—
of hero’s•of prey•of vultures•of owls•of fire
I am outside-
IN
on a planet
scribbled with spit and crayons.
I am smile.
~J.lynn Sheridan~
Poetic Bloomings: The Walk of Life Prompt
Day 9 Whew!
Write a shady poem. I had some inspiration and assistance with this one. So, thank you Nutmeg, my muse for today. Sometimes mine goes on an extended vacation and forgets to bring me.
One of these days I’ll get creative and write a form instead of free-verse.
“The silent law”
He was a tad uncomfortable at the St. Louis wedding.
Well, who wasn’t? You and me sitting there, me picking
at the food while you had a little champagne and I had
an Amaretto on the rocks and cake when the band played
the Stones and those two sultry bridesmaids hobbled in
on crutches.
There should have been a mandatory silence but the tan
Texan from Chicago who flew them all there stirred the
crowd’s jubilee muzzling the outsiders’ whispers.
All they want to do is eat, drink, and talk clan. It’s the same
at every family event.
A silent law. You know. I know it. He knows it.
Mr. Uncomfortable might barely know some of his cousins
but you can’t cut out the family, or worse, invite some and
not others.
It’s clan suicide.
He cowered alone at a round table in the corner spinning
a gold band around his finger watching the girls through
the mosaic mirrors on the walls through his bloated
Rocky Balboa eyes.
Writing On The Sun 