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donall-dempseyPoems
KICKING THE BUCKET The moon has fallen asleep in a bucket can't get back out despite trying to slide over the rim. It trembles as a train thunders past midnight. A child tries to catch it its tiny hand plunging through another dimension through to its nothingness. The moon takes its chance and escapes to the sky with a splash. It's all gone now ( the barn of course ) but the house...the child...that moon are no longer to be found. Strange to think a house can die. A tree enters through the kitchen window lays its head upon a table. The bedroom is without its roof. A door still stands without its walls. It bangs in the breeze a surreal morse code. The living room is home to a family of nettles. A sofa moulders a new line in zombie furniture. A hare stands upon a chair barely able to hold itself together. One of the chair's legs genuflects to a sunset. The hare hops upon the rotting table top enters the tree's head and leaves upon its branches. Somehow the bucket survives. Still standing outside the outhouse. It is full of storm right to the brim. It holds within itself the moon of now. Trains no longer thunder by. I, that child now - this man let the moon splash through my man before throwing it into the night's sky. Always wanted to do that before I kicked the bucket.
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Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
KICKING THE BUCKET
KICKING THE BUCKET The moon has fallen asleep in a bucket can't get back out despite trying to slide over the rim. It trembles as a train thunders past midnight. A child tries to catch it its tiny hand plunging through another dimension through to its nothingness. The moon takes its chance and escapes to the sky with a splash. It's all gone now ( the barn of course ) but the house...the child...that moon are no longer to be found. Strange to think a house can die. A tree enters through the kitchen window lays its head upon a table. The bedroom is without its roof. A door still stands without its walls. It bangs in the breeze a surreal morse code. The living room is home to a family of nettles. A sofa moulders a new line in zombie furniture. A hare stands upon a chair barely able to hold itself together. One of the chair's legs genuflects to a sunset. The hare hops upon the rotting table top enters the tree's head and leaves upon its branches. Somehow the bucket survives. Still standing outside the outhouse. It is full of storm right to the brim. It holds within itself the moon of now. Trains no longer thunder by. I, that child now - this man let the moon splash through my man before throwing it into the night's sky. Always wanted to do that before I kicked the bucket.
donall-dempsey
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donall-dempsey
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
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