#expatriot - Hello Poetry

I would rather be a wanderer a belongerer to no body to no country a loose end than to bob eagerly at every tug of the yarn's end whose wound-up mass amasses me a wriggled up ball of wriggles I would rather be alone than scooped up in a basket with others of my supposed ilk and held in by the over-under wicker edges domed up for containment ominous clicks and scrapes of my destiny clattering and chattering above fraying frizzled frazzled bits smoothing out as my length is tugged up and up like a long slurpy noodle I would rather be loose and scrappy and stumpy and ragged the one that nobody loves the discarded refuse of a more discerning eye than be made surreptitiously into somebody else's jumper © 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

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Feb 25, 2018

Feb 25, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC

adelaideheathfield

A Loose End

I would rather be a wanderer a belongerer to no body to no country a loose end than to bob eagerly at every tug of the yarn's end whose wound-up mass amasses me a wriggled up ball of wriggles I would rather be alone than scooped up in a basket with others of my supposed ilk and held in by the over-under wicker edges domed up for containment ominous clicks and scrapes of my destiny clattering and chattering above fraying frizzled frazzled bits smoothing out as my length is tugged up and up like a long slurpy noodle I would rather be loose and scrappy and stumpy and ragged the one that nobody loves the discarded refuse of a more discerning eye than be made surreptitiously into somebody else's jumper © 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

76

a polkadotted napkin full of problems tied to a stick slung across my shoulder strutting stubbornly from one place to another never questioning why I bother meandering all over a runaway to sunny beaches gloomy cities far off reaches of far earth with stars poured in my eyes and hard-earned pennies in my purse hoping that this time will be different it couldn't be worse ? ©2018 Adelaide Heathfield

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Feb 22, 2018

Feb 22, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC

adelaideheathfield

Napkin Full of Problems

a polkadotted napkin full of problems tied to a stick slung across my shoulder strutting stubbornly from one place to another never questioning why I bother meandering all over a runaway to sunny beaches gloomy cities far off reaches of far earth with stars poured in my eyes and hard-earned pennies in my purse hoping that this time will be different it couldn't be worse ? ©2018 Adelaide Heathfield

31

father-watching faraway triggered sweet by memory plucked from twinge of heart at husband whiskers sprinkled in the sink father slow transforming out of sight whisker white a-creep through long-time beard of boyish blondish-brown sprouting scraggled out from ear and nose and knuckle round eyes a-cave and sunken deep in shaded-over cavities for inward looking more than out with no more footballs flung about and no more children yanking on the waking hours' daggy trousers for weeping over old-time music secret in the dark up with the birds down with the sun midlife rush at last a-hush and calm in its surrender done bones exposed of parenthood held frail a-clung by gristle grey of simple habits coffee thick and silky run with milk and crispest crusty bread torn up for dipping into hearty stock with olives cheese and ham on top a drop of something oaky sipped and languished a-crawl with thoughts of father own disintegrating boyhood memories coddled close and satiating with daughter unbeknownst father-watching faraway © 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

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Feb 20, 2018

Feb 20, 2018 at 7:53 AM UTC

adelaideheathfield

Father-Watching

father-watching faraway triggered sweet by memory plucked from twinge of heart at husband whiskers sprinkled in the sink father slow transforming out of sight whisker white a-creep through long-time beard of boyish blondish-brown sprouting scraggled out from ear and nose and knuckle round eyes a-cave and sunken deep in shaded-over cavities for inward looking more than out with no more footballs flung about and no more children yanking on the waking hours' daggy trousers for weeping over old-time music secret in the dark up with the birds down with the sun midlife rush at last a-hush and calm in its surrender done bones exposed of parenthood held frail a-clung by gristle grey of simple habits coffee thick and silky run with milk and crispest crusty bread torn up for dipping into hearty stock with olives cheese and ham on top a drop of something oaky sipped and languished a-crawl with thoughts of father own disintegrating boyhood memories coddled close and satiating with daughter unbeknownst father-watching faraway © 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

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