Even as dying, I have no time
For bitterness.

Life was too short,
Even before.

Each step holds gratitude for the sound
Of snow beneath it.

For
Now

I carry my passenger
Unburdened.

Say no to nothing. Not
Even the cancer.

Even tomorrow's mother's tears,
Father's clenched fists upon casket;

Flowers; loss. Inevitability.
Death grows inside me.

The opposite of a
Pregnancy.
Every so often children throwing tantrums
Catch parent faces , bracing fallen sourness
Where outlines wrinkle rosy outlook sadly
Raisens having pits

Logan Robertson

1/16/2019
Read CC's blog at Poetry Soup, describing  sapphic stanza with a jux. I found that form interesting, spent hours marveling and researching. I attempted my first one. Not sure if this is correct-11/11/11/5. In this poem I wrote of a parent coping with a child's misbehavior. The effect of such leaving a wrinkled image much like a raisen on the parents face with the juxtaposition at the end of the poem, which is a play on words, too, raisens/raising.
You crave me being big, the way you make
The bottom of a bag of food look back at you, hungry
For bigger loaves of bread, ******* and bellies,
And for grander cities.
Sit and lean into the future: We’re on a balcony,
No, a cliff -
It’s a city in Greece and the moon is shriveled over
Fluorescent stars, relentless day.
Billy Joel’s older stuff rings around us,
Yesterday’s collected pounds and we stop talking about her
Right then and there, never reminisce again, just
Us, ivory and scallops, ocean breeze and sixty degrees - only.
The daydream city along the Mediterranean smells like Manhattan at the
Right angle, for we dance anywhere, we eat and drink
Everywhere - make no mistakes for the whole day,
Ask the cashier when he last cried and why,
Origami myself into the sky with the look on your face,
Order one more drink if it’s still before 3. If it’s after,
Walk with me, sew cobwebs into blankets,
Pressure morning into holding its breath,
Trick the waves into taking off.
Here we are, the home stretch of having, the needle just above
The running plastic, never touching it,
Nobody noticing.
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