This prose poem is from my collection "Poems from the Island"
Snow flurries rushed between us on the ice.
Two black shapes without the world.
"Keep seperate!" he yelled.
The wind blew his words asunder...
Instantly, I remembered the sea heather
I'd left to dry by the fire pit.
Idle thoughts like sludge move slowly
in a frozen mind.
And the right words freeze on your tongue.
If the ice cracked, we'd hear it.
That horrible sound when Buddy was ****** down.
I wished I married a fireman.
A fireman would have saved my brother.
My old Dad was crackers living on this island
so far North. Expanding his poetry by writing
sonnets to Shakespeare and Ovid. Taunting me
into crossing an ice plated pond to test fate.
The time was cock-eyed, too late in the season.
My father was scared. He'd been scared for a long time.
I heard the CRACK! it ripped open my head.
Suddenly, ****** back to our unborn selves. STRANDED...
No time to say, good-bye.
The black curtain on the last call falls sharply.
Those with nothing to live for invent things
to die for--so much for invention...
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 8:24 PM UTC
This prose poem is from my collection "Poems from the Island"
Snow flurries rushed between us on the ice.
Two black shapes without the world.
"Keep seperate!" he yelled.
The wind blew his words asunder...
Instantly, I remembered the sea heather
I'd left to dry by the fire pit.
Idle thoughts like sludge move slowly
in a frozen mind.
And the right words freeze on your tongue.
If the ice cracked, we'd hear it.
That horrible sound when Buddy was ****** down.
I wished I married a fireman.
A fireman would have saved my brother.
My old Dad was crackers living on this island
so far North. Expanding his poetry by writing
sonnets to Shakespeare and Ovid. Taunting me
into crossing an ice plated pond to test fate.
The time was cock-eyed, too late in the season.
My father was scared. He'd been scared for a long time.
I heard the CRACK! it ripped open my head.
Suddenly, ****** back to our unborn selves. STRANDED...
No time to say, good-bye.
The black curtain on the last call falls sharply.
Those with nothing to live for invent things
to die for--so much for invention...
@2010Kathleen M. Colby