Post by rrw on May 22, 2010 13:57:54 GMT -5
Strip the linens from my bed,
stay the pillow ‘neath my head
for I shall sleep and snore instead
of waking to my wrinkled brow…
Where did I forget to dream,stay the pillow ‘neath my head
for I shall sleep and snore instead
of waking to my wrinkled brow…
When did all my reverie decide
to drift away… my end of day…?
Her hair spun dirty gold,
each curl in swirling strands
that wound their way
around my fingertips.
The scent of it still lingers yet
within the memories my mouth
and tongue remember…
Transparent where the leaping haunts each curl in swirling strands
that wound their way
around my fingertips.
The scent of it still lingers yet
within the memories my mouth
and tongue remember…
which danced along my dreaming nose
when I was all but ten or so, balled up
inside a blanket warm, that Davey Crockett
coon skin cap wrapped tightly ‘round
a carrot top, pubescent head; my nightmares
far too airy, far too scary for this silly boy
whose only friends were monsters snarling
at him from the ten inch, TV screen…
Nor shall I forget the tea set
bone, porcelain white
upon a sturdy brown oak tray
(that she would lay across
my lap to my delight),
endowed with cups of coffee black,
small bowls of marmalade and
buttered toast. A smile adorned
her aging face embroidered there
in sunlit dew; those pouting lips
which I would kiss each morning
when we woke…
bone, porcelain white
upon a sturdy brown oak tray
(that she would lay across
my lap to my delight),
endowed with cups of coffee black,
small bowls of marmalade and
buttered toast. A smile adorned
her aging face embroidered there
in sunlit dew; those pouting lips
which I would kiss each morning
when we woke…
Was I forever scarred, beyond
repair by drunken shouts and
wicked infidelities my parents
always seemed to scream so late at
night? The neighbors never knew,
the couple who were always up
before the yawning dawn were
truly zombies searching for the dark,
the dark outside, inside themselves…
the dark that sat beneath their hearts
where half smoked cigarettes and
cans of stale beer slept, waiting to
be thrown away, perhaps consumed
by butcher knives, malicious vows
to someday kill what little innocence
existed in this grayscale world…
Knotted into human laces
strolling through the winter graces,
rainy springs and summers hot.
Like children skipping off to school,
we smiled a lot at this and that
and at ourselves for finally finding one
who seemed to live for nothing more—
Oh, all those simple, lovely moments
that we shared…
Did I ever care for lullabiesstrolling through the winter graces,
rainy springs and summers hot.
Like children skipping off to school,
we smiled a lot at this and that
and at ourselves for finally finding one
who seemed to live for nothing more—
Oh, all those simple, lovely moments
that we shared…
or drowsy eyes anticipating
beer stained snuggles from my
mommy and my daddy right
before I went to bed?
Was I always something less
than childlike? Yes, an old man
spinning tales before the tales
where there to spin…A tired
old man waiting for the pigeons
of his youth to waddle past
along his balding sky…
But then again she left
without a note, a word goodbye
and though I never loved the rain
I cried to see her shadow
slowly fading—disappear.
My fragile hope just standing
there behind the slamming door…
The rooks have come to roost.without a note, a word goodbye
and though I never loved the rain
I cried to see her shadow
slowly fading—disappear.
My fragile hope just standing
there behind the slamming door…
Their African cries carve each star
to dovetail beige, where all my thoughts
toss and turn until the dreary day
shakes them wide awake… Until
the raven’s drooping wings
have lost all will to soar…
And we who fear
to crawl… walk slow,
bowed down by time.
With each hour passing,
we find the next much colder
(so much colder, sometimes)
than the one that came before.
The we who mutter wearily,
our dry tongues mumble nonsense
to the benches in the park, the
people strolling through the park—
the question: why and why—
forever weeping crows.
to crawl… walk slow,
bowed down by time.
With each hour passing,
we find the next much colder
(so much colder, sometimes)
than the one that came before.
The we who mutter wearily,
our dry tongues mumble nonsense
to the benches in the park, the
people strolling through the park—
the question: why and why—
forever weeping crows.
—rrw for his 62nd Birthday,
May 23rd, 2010
Poem of The Week
* Sorry i haven't been around much lately, but i have been very ill this whole last week! Nothing, I hope, too serious but I really don't know. For some of you who don't know me, I am in the habit of posting a "birthday poem" every year. Been doing it since... my 56th! Sunday...! is another! Whoopee!