"crisply" poems
Thy fingers make early flowers
of all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go amaying.
thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says;singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?
To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).
51.2k
The wrath inside you boils from your rage;
your anger elevates to drown your sense.
My blindness has deluded me as sage,
serene and irreproachably intense.
It’s likely that my passive nature’s pushing
my little brother, you, – who hates that term –
straight to hear discordant, silent ringing
as wrath’s contorted demon crisply worms
into your weakened ear to fill your mind
with bubbles, red, and bursting sound, and DARK –
which spread like darkened dust-storms into mine.
That ready wrath, red and quick to spark
burns best those minds invulnerable to sin –
such smug-singed souls sink – slaves to self-delusion.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
who’s most afraid of death?thou
art of him
utterly afraid,i love of thee
(beloved)this
and truly i would be
near when his scythe takes crisply the whim
of thy smoothness. and mark the fainting
murdered petals. with caving stem.
But of all most would i be one of them
round the hurt heart which do so frailly cling….)
i who am but imperfect in my fear
Or with thy mind against my mind,to hear
nearing our hearts’ irrevocable play—
through the mysterious high futile day
an enormous stride
(and drawing thy mouth toward
my mouth,steer our lost bodies carefully downward.
14k
In the supermarket airport
There are arrivals every day.
The departures in your trolley
Come to you from far away.
Those brightly coloured vegetables
Have sat around for days
In what we’re told are
such hygienic backroom bays.
They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves!
Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves.
Here every carrot is straight and clean
And every lettuce crisply curled
Then gassed in plastic packets
That are filling up our world!
Take a glance inside your trolley
And if what I say is true
Then I guarantee the food within
Has seen more of the world than you.
Like the picture on the packet
Of your frozen ready meal
The colour of this far flown food is great
The taste experience, surreal.
Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins
We should dye brown, to match their taste
Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour-
What a waste!
A plate of vibrant promising hue
Can taste of packaging and glue.
The supermarket tells you you’re in clover
But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover.
Your supermarket says that it is catering for you
But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true?
If you don’t then there is something you can do.
At the supermarket airport
All the money’s in departures
So put that trolley back
And just depart.
If you're wanting to be vocal
Then shop seasonal and local
And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November. After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.
Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.
'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part. Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'
In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'
'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire: simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days. Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'
'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'
'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'
'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'
'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf? Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'
From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
7.7k
The sprouting buttercup
dangles into the purpled,
doting sky. It's waxy spangles
nuzzle the moist,
crisply dewed, fluff
whilst billowing across merry air.
The yellow buttercup
dozes in spiced, lean dapples,
setting its soul ablaze in sumptuous echoes at the sheer
drape of dawn.
The teacup buttercup
outspreads it's wings
amongst tall spiked grasses
and wild flowers.
Shifting shafts and shards
of grass and glass
and forever awaiting the larks cry
which means its time to die.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
The poet’s quill scribes a vision of the debutante
as she rests amongst the bluebells
Scattered like jewels over the meadow.
The delicate voice of the robins
Echo through the valley,
Where the gentleman tells of his ardor
As they shelter amongst the weeping willows.
Curls tumble from the confines of her hat,
Parasol tilting to hide girlish blushes,
Careless of her silk skirts
they are crushed, lying as broken rose petals.
She glows with the joy of an un-chaperoned picnic
Scent of cinnamon scrolls tempt her senses,
as her beau offers cider to moisten their suddenly dry throats.
Dapper in his impeccable finery,
Coat tails trailing, crisply starched shirt points lifting his chin,
Top hat tilted at a rakish angle.
Dark eye’s glinting with the thrill of his endeavors.
Sunshine silhouettes the glory of the lovers,
whom the poet has sewn together
as an artist creates a masterpiece.
Each syllable as a brushstroke on canvas.
A Monet made not of oil and brushes,
But ink and parchment.
Every word scribed by the care of the poet,
Transformed within the mind of the reader
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 12:59 AM UTC
Here I lay in my comfort composure
Listening to every rythm of my music
Removing my white earphone to listen
To listen to the beauty of nature raining
Picturing myself as a randrop falling; free
Picturing the placid movement of water
Moving as one, cold breeze and falling with heavy gravitational pull
Thinking back to when I'd lay in
_comfort_
Listening to every perfect beat of your heart
Concentrating on the whispers of your spirit
Being attentive to your chords as you release them
Piercing my mind, _quaking_
through my flesh
To simply un-wither that was even desintegrated
Your love circulating my veins
Simply
By speaking
Rippling accross my seams
Bolting through my body more
than any drug ever
Hanging me on your hook
Touring to the meadow in my
dreams
Conquering the battles in my
nightmares
Re-writing the words on my page
that is life
Then
After enough re-painting
Of my story
You started to un-write my book
Crossing the hearts
Tearing the written pages
Oh how I could only stand and
_stare_
Oh how all you did, difficultly
_Glare_
The whispers your soul gave
_withered_
Cleared and filléd my mind
_vacant_
Was I abandoned by your heart
So easily the welcoming door
Became an unbidden command
_requested_
This hour
Is when I play it back;
Remenisce about it
Laying alone, in discomfort
Listening to no beats
Not even one of my own
Then I close my eyes violently
Shoving back the emotion
To silently replay those words
I love you
Always
Crashing down
Bolting tar through my body
Poisoning my mind
Rippling through my veins
That same poison
Is what I use
To **** inside me
What demons creep
See the story has a twist
What I feared most
What demons I feared even more
Is exactly what I became
The poison inside me
Crisply ogling at me
Inside the cage
Compresséd
Inside what
We call a
Mirror
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC
It smells like snow.
The air whips crisply through
her lungs as she inhales.
It smells like new parchment.
The excitement of a new book
just waiting to be read.
It smells like Christmas.
Brings her back to when
even Santa Claus was real.
It smells like horses.
They always make her
feel completely free.
It smells like nostalgia,
brings the memories back.
It smells like regret,
pain follows each breathe.
It smells like fear,
that she had but one chance.
It smells like hope.
That fickle friend
promises to catch her,
but still lets her fall.
**And now
It smells like you.**
So full of the past
that I wish my lungs
would
stop.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 1:55 AM UTC
Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm
I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover
There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain
And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat
And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas
Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
In the moments that are waiting, crisply, to break into floods of
daytime-issues of deadlines and ***** dishes,
something happens.
In the moments where procrastination is a smile and a fine lie nestled
tight between hope and reluctance
this will happen:
thoughts of warmth, glory and wisdom will flutter
through your spirit- rare beasts, jeweled fruit-flies
or candelabras
(silver)
waiting to be caught, just as long
as you
don't
get
down
to
work.
10 minutes left
you struggle to hold to you
hours of wonder, days of mirth
all felt that one September night, when the rice had warmed your belly
and softened your eyes
and the sky was kinder reflected in the city drains
because at that particular hour at hand, they were rivers of a foreign land
saturated with dreams and magics-transmuted by the rains.
6 minutes left
caught the last train
back
home waited behind a line of tired women without eyes
they were trees maybe
or rushes by the river whispering of a home before a
home before this one,
some ancient stony place of arches and pools
i don't quite know
as the tracks beating under made them hard to hear.
4 minutes left- does thought really
cross at 'the speed of god'?
Such words from plays by beloved men haunt one at the strangest times.
Thus, inspiration once struck, dims.
Thus, the end of the page approaches.
"Thus." cruelly, super-ego laughs.
Thus, work begins.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
Wizened, like the mountain ridges in the west,
you gazed across the desk at me, rheumy eyes unblinking,
and asked me what I wanted from life
When I answered, the blue opacity of your gaze seemed to sharpen
and pierce my soul
you clasped your hands comfortably, and rolled your ancient shoulders back
- trees rippled in the ridges of your crisply pressed shirt -
and you told me, with your well-worn voice, that you would exert every effort
to give me all the tools I needed to succeed
as you blinked, our conference ended, like the sun had gone down
I was free to leave, but lingered
your short white hair crested your brow like a fresh snowcap, you
had ravines beside your eyes, and smiled like a canyon
so I turned to go
And it occurred to me, as I left the inclines of your presence for
the flat horizons of my daily life, that I
would like to have the same peace that flowed
through your being,
it would be a healthy rain to the desert of my soul.
I longed to have the verdancy that you had - you,
forty years my senior; you put my youth to shame
but soon you would be my teacher, and
you would not let me go to waste
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
.
Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the gasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
The warble frocks and debutantes,
Soprano trilling nightingales,
The extras dressed as elephants
And tenors with their penguin tails;
They mingle at the opera house
With canapés on silver trays;
Then dine on pigeon, goose and grouse,
To reminisce their finest plays;
When Romeo found Juliet
The crowds were on their feet for days,
When mighty Caesar’s end was met,
The press regaled with highest praise;
Such fine upstanding citizens,
So crisply draped, so brightly gowned;
The marvel of these denizens,
So rarely seen, so well renowned.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
My feet are cold.
The black stove in the bottom right
corner of the room must've gone out.
Grandaddy's thick green army blanket
tops just above my feet.
I can feel my sister's breath,
warm on my neck, as we lie on Grandma's black leather sleeper sofa
across from the black stove.
My cousins are on the other side,
Ashton's asthma is acting up.
Mamma and daddy are in the other
room. The dog, Lady, is snoring on Grandma's pink armchair.
Grandma's in the kitchen banging
pots, preparing Sunday breakfast.
Auntie's walking down the hallway.
I can hear her blue cotton slippers
shuffle 'cross the carpet.
Mamma starts the tub in the
small, green bathroom down the
hall from the ancient white
washer and dryer.
My crisply pressed black suit
Is laid out on Grandma's
master bed.
My suit is on and my Bible
in hand. Seated on my
father's shoulders we all filed out
the door, twenty people staying
in Grandma's tiny, old house
beside the pasture that kept the
two brown quarters that were as
old as the house itself. The rose
bush across from the screen
door at the front of the house
had flowers, the same color
as those on my sister's Sunday dress
deep blood red. A blood red rose
on every breast short, tall, young
an old. A tradition carried out
until the rose bush across from the
screen door, at the front of the
house, beside the pasture that
kept the two brown quarters as
old as the house itself, died.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 4:13 PM UTC
The snow lay crisply on the sill
And gripped the windowpane.
A coach and horses scurried by
Slowly, slithering down the lane.
Beneath the gas light in the gloom
A group of choirboys sang.
‘Ding **** merrily on high’,
And all the church bells rang.
Whilst in his bedroom, up above,
A little schoolboy lay.
He’d hung his stockings on the posts
And he dreamed of Christmas day.
And on his bed an old greatcoat
Around his neck held tight,
And on his feet a rag knot rug
To warm him through the night.
His water bottle at his chest
Had now become quite cold.
But in his mind the warm thoughts raced
Of many stories told.
His Mom and Dad below him sat
Less warmly by a candle,
And worried how to pay the rent
Thus to avoid a scandal.
‘But one things sure’, his old mom said.
‘This year may be our last,
So we’ll do all that we can do
To make it better than the last.
‘Remember to be quiet’, she said.
‘Don’t wake my baby boy’.
Here’s an orange, apple and monkey nuts
And a little wooden toy’.
His Father crept into his room
And by his stockings knelt.
He slowly placed inside the gifts
Then in his waistcoat felt.
A tiny farthing in his hand
And in his eye a tear.
He gently pushed it with the rest,
Then to his boy drew near.
‘If only I could give you more,
Then Son I surely would.
For if it were the only thing to give
Then I would give my blood.
His Son lay there without a care,
A smile upon his face.
He kissed him gently on the cheek
And left without a trace.
Then slowly creeping across the hills
And softly clipping trees.
An orange globe of Christmas cheer
Began the frost to tease.
Wiping sleep out of his bleary eyes
And awakening to the cold.
Quickly rummaging into the socks
Clutched a farthing as if gold.
A little boy whose Christmas dreams
So simply had been blessed.
Sang a little Christmas song
And rapidly got dressed.
Each breath he breathed froze in the air.
His tiny hands and feet were frozen.
His mind already at the shop
Espied the sweets he chosen.
Liquorice wood and kali dabs
Pink sugar candied mice.
The little journey down the lane
And sliding on the ice.
His mom and Dad they saw his glee,
Forgot their sorry states.
At least upon this Holy day
They’d have food upon their plates
Dec 6, 2009
Dec 6, 2009 at 7:49 AM UTC
words and feelings and actions and thoughts
tend to congeal together with time
my creative spontaneous quick thinking
cost me clock ticking
my age grows larger and I begin to rot
I watch people function domino effect
followed by theories directly speaking
Freud and other teachings
completely speaking
open unrevealing
doors and locks
with rooms crisply burnt
or merely dreaming
White walled rooms
recently inhabiting
night engines, dream catchers
conversations via phone-
the private type in a bedroom
alone
White walled rooms
now emptied by bodies
with strong meaty arms and legs
Quickly gotta move out quickly
gotta respond to this
good morning darling text
next work five and half hours
running on 80 mg of battery power
I’m always dragging my tail
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
in such in was springtime (hollyhock and thistle) girls and boys went nudely up their downs, into crystal waters of crisply straying health (when all noontide swung wide its gabled darkness hutch) and boysandgirls (in holly) went winter in its touch.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
. WNTR, o
the earth
is how long
)in you?
crisply perhaps
stiffmuscling die erected
foal trees. Barely skinned
,
.
'
.
,
.
'
.
H
e A
V
y with
light dying
of shadows
)between
o
WNTR
i skip a penny
across
Bu
g e
yed june
(Ag
irl inn
ot enough
clothing
,cuz it was june o lord it was so hot i could feel my sweat across the
palm of each hand go slick like oil across the cool common pinch
of the fuzzed in ***** tinter grass.
i o and uncurling stiffly went like the shoots off of roses: topaz
i went red like the bitten ******
of girl tingling
unchastely
snowless hips
)without WNTR which
soft of hard
and hard of itch
itch
and itch
(in WNTR to please
remove me my health
and barely skin me
a foal tree
untwitching
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
she wanted to be
a killer bee
so she honeyed up servant girls
and placed them under
the fruit trees
but upon severing the stinger
a bee loses it's lust
so she left them to the bugs
and took on a bigger love
for pins and needles
and fingernails and a pale face
laced with pain
when they scream she shivers and asks
them to say her name again
when she was still young
her husband taught her necks break
if you bend them back fast enough
eyes go blind if you cut them
crisply across the iris
peasants can go missing and
no one will ever know
god help the ruthless mistakes
nobility makes
dorian gray in her mirror today
****** erzebet kissed the servant girls
like jeffrey's boy with the hole in his skull
she must have looked beautiful
in the moonlight coming through
the dungeon grates
and they finally found out
bricked over the windows
left a slit for food
minotaur in his maze
she thought she'd show off
for her funeral
but she is alone
the bodies decay
now she is a killer bee
in a cage
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
Wispy, subtle words leave your tongue,
floating from lips to ear with ease.
Leaving behind a trail of silver dust;
sonic spores spinning streams of song.
Lighter than the air they rest upon.
One voice, bending harmonies into new mold.
Locking my eyes into place.
Paralyzed from the fear of any movement -
making a noise to scamper into this sacred sound scape.
Fluttering lyrics like brittle, little moths
seeking out a flame. Dying to be heard.
Melodies lifting, lingering in yellow.
Dissonance, crisply crashing, mixing to green.
Washed away by a refreshing blue refrain.
Only to be boiled into the ole' gold chorus.
Anthem of awakening for the foolish sleeper.
This is the song of the migrating flock -
the hymn of the winter-slumbering hive
to tell of the memories of many springs past.
So I sit, simmering in suspense.
Hoping, praying that the silence not return.
Sounds of leaves laughing as the wind -
tickles them on the tips of their branch-homes.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
So it's Summer.
Another part of me gone. Another seed swallowed.
Blue entrancing. Green hypnotizing.
These colors are wreaking havoc on my critical reasoning.
My bleached body shakes, sun singing shivers to me.
I dye it blue and my skin crisply peels.
Open my eyes, and again Green.
Green falling in my hair and Green wind whispering.
Green hissing stories of much time and plans unfurling.
And then the Green circles.
Please, not the round pools...
I drowned. Swallowed the Green it went inside.
Absorbed me and when the darkness spread it wasn't the end.
In the abyss, deeply drowning deeply dying,
in those Green pools floating.
A flip, a blink, a twitch.
Then Blue. My circles. My reflection standing.
The current must have brought me here to safety.
In the lapse of time
when the circles eclipsed,
between the
blinks
and
stares
I fell in love. Green love. Much to quickly.
When will I learn my lesson?
Washes of lashes ruffling of nails
pulling of flesh hard on the ground.
Green eyes
Bright lies.
Fingers brush lips.
Shivers whispers
Whimpers Winters
White skies
Closed eyes.
The ground heavy on my feet, I can't fly.
Green eyes.
Bright lies.
Holding another mind in my mind (I'm in love with it)
Ice glass shatters and I twist in the dark.
The potential! The potential!
BRIGHT.
LIES.
Love can strike a face, so deceitful when the heart has not been heard.
I wanted our lips as mine, your fingers in my thighs,
the heart in your chest and our feet entwined.
I stuttered and froze in time.
Satisfied with keys, striking keys.
Satisfied with paper of your Green eyes.
Don't ask about the depths I tread, but please...
how do you sound?
Invited to a hunt I'm afraid of what's hunted.
In that pivot point two lovers were united
leaving me with Green eyes.
How did I dive this far down?
You must have hypnotized me.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
The smallest coffins are the heaviest!
The smallest coffins are the heaviest!
No one wears stained clothes
No person likes stained walls
We make sure that they are cleaned
We make sure it is all stainless
But on a colourless Tuesday
Terrorists spilled red all over a school
They ransacked the classrooms
They set a teacher on fire
They shot aimlessly at tiny hearts and hands
They murdered their future
They banged bullets through budding brains
And all that was left were stains.
Terrorists stained crisply ironed uniforms
They spilled blood in corridors once filled with colourful paintings
They blemished the thoughts of little souls
They damaged the hearts of parents young and old.
Terrorists persist in staining their hands
They exult in staining their nation
They stain the meaning of Islam
They stain the words of Allah in the holy Quran
The redness of young blood will haunt them
These red pigments will soak them into hell
These blotches won’t be disregarded
These stains will sustain till eternity!
-Zainab Attari
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Strings sting
Sticking feelings on eternities billboard
All roads leading to the altar
For comemoration of a promise made in thick and fulfilled when the chances looked slim.
'Can't be together'
Some said.
but forever didn't bother.
Cos fate had drawn the borders
knowing we were meant for each other.
How did we become lovers?
I need not know
Why u chose to wait
is still a source of debate
Carpets fell to the floor
Wow!they are red
Threadless needle
sew our hearts
as we exchanged vows crisply
Nuptial cords
soothing like piano chords
Hearty jingles
escaping from your dimples
Exchanging smiles
Cos now I can finally say you are 'mine.'
If I were you
You would be me
I don't need you
French says we are 'une'.
We have loved each other from our early teens
but each morning our love takes a new theme.
Heaven stunned by earth
Angels admiring lovebirds
Cos though we bound by eternal strings
We don't wish to be free
Confined in the cell:
You is me and I is you.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
warm air crept over ice last night as we slept
arriving to offend morning with doubt
comforting, I think, the frigid sear that reminded once of life
because this restless fog obscures thought
and has made the world smaller, duller
I've begun to wonder, now, where the living hide
there’s a familiar ghost, that man half blind,
wandering creaking boards inside
hoping to find joys in his shoe box of blurred photographs,
researching meaning among reams
of precious handwritten notes and shopping lists,
their chapters stacked in magazine racks and bookshelves
opening the hapless, broken-winged jewelry box
remembered crisply wrapped in ribbons, love and flowered paper once,
to finger its claspless necklaces, orphaned earrings and half smiles
her old clothes are freshly laundered,
the favored sweater with holes, neatly folded
stored in the bottom drawer to savor forever
will we all live, neat, finally quiet
in boxes someday, just like this?
he chose to robe her in that special dress, but kept its matching scarf...
I glimpsed him in her mirror as he paced
and wait for mist to pass
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC