Erasure

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

artwork used by permission of Catrin Welzstein

in association with d'Verse Poets

 

 

 

ERASURE

 

I am gone, and this goes on

You have your smoke

The girls talk quietly about their lives

I am not here, but this goes on

Up and down the yard

The children run

Juliet picks flowers

As the sun begins to fade

Someone clears the plates

This goes on and I am gone

The way your smoke dissipates above,

Gone the way of dandelion fuzz.

Fall

Fall

The leaves loose early now,

As hapless children

Pull away and run.

Bereft on barren branch,

Spotting in the sun,

Late apples cling 

Where just days past 

We loved beneath the green ---

Green scattered now, 

Leavings,  gold then rust,

Gone to ground too soon.

Too soon the hurried rush,

The barren branch,

The fallen, spotted 

Sticky, ripened fruit.

Too soon the leaves,

The fall, the spot of rust;

Outrun, the frenzied, scattered 
Sweetness gone to dust.

Night Blind

Night Blind

It always  was your sight

That banished darkest night,

But now my Light is spent,

For while I dozed, it went

The way of leaving things:

Bags packed, a cab, the rings

Bereft beside the bed

Atop a note that said:

When darkness turns to day

And chases dreams away,

Yet you remain in night,

Long longing for the light,

Think on me and know

I didn't wish to go.

Demeter Mourns Her Loss

DEMETER MOURNS HER LOSS



She spreads her hands
where she stands; treads
through sands that shift
beneath the drift of Time's
lifted breath; she sifts
for gold -- for days of old --
but finds she holds only chaff,
chaff that is damp and cold.

I Am a Crooked Line

Actually, I'm a bad blogger! I haven't been around to read anyone's poetry lately, and even though I have all sorts of excuses, mostly it comes down to allowing living to take precedence over reading and writing. Yet, I miss the community here. I can't promise that I'll do better,but I can assure you that I want to! Right now, I feel like a crooked line. (Thanks to Poetry Bus driver Dana Bug for that thought.) Read on to see to what dark depths it took me, and read here to see where the other bus riders are going.

Don't forget to check out the TFE's World's Greatest Blog! You'll find PB1 and soon PB2 ready for your reading pleasure!

I AM A CROOKED LINE

I am a crooked line
Between life and death,

Nothing straight or narrow,
Though the tomb is dark.

Weeping, call me from this night;
Unbind, unwind the cloth.

I am the crooked line,
That runs from love to loss.

Coming Home

When you left the house this morning,

I was sitting in my chair,

huddled over coffee and uttering a prayer

that you would come home safely

to sit down in your place,

a smile for me a gleaming

through the coal dust on your face.

You'd reach with blackened hands

like so many times before

to take my own within them

as we sat there on the porch,

and you'd tell me how you love me

and the way you'd thought all day

of the dinner I'd have waiting

and of how I'd always say,

"John, I love you, mister!

You've come home to me again,

and I've waited in my breathing

so I can breathe again.

Now go and wash that dirt off,

and, mind, don't track the floor.

I've dinner warm awaiting.

Set your bucket by the door."

Then I'd heave my old worn body

from the seat where every day

I sit and watch the dirt road

for the cloud that comes this way

when your truck pulls up the holler,

and I watch you as you come

and your eyes light up like diamonds

at the love that pulls you home.

They say you've gone away now,

but I sit here by the door

and watch for clouds of glory

to bring you like before.

Dedicated to all of the grieving families who lost loved ones in the Montcoal mining disaster on April 5, 2010. May God bless and keep and comfort them.

Scattering

SCATTERING

I wonder

If you noticed

As you left

The way the light

Behind you

Gathered on the plains

And how the blues

Distilled from noonday skies

Became a darkened canvas

Of the day and how the dot of sun

Would pull our eyes

Away from that one spot

Where you had been

To somewhere in a distance

Past the clouds

To places you might wander

Through again.

I wonder if you took

The time at all

To have a look behind

To fix the spot

Where time and space

All scattered have become

A picture of the place

Where you are not.

Your leaving is a telling

Beyond words, an empty seat,

A setting, distant sun,

A barren tree,

A scattering of birds,

The painting of a sorrow

Just begun.

Into Egypt

From birth

We are displaced,

On rocky paths,

Seeking asylum

In melancholy landscapes,

Giving up on innocence

And on our thrones;

Our arms are full of myrrh

As we move forward

Into Egypt.

This poem was inspired by the ReadWritePoem picture/prompt. I don't know why it made me think of the flight into Egypt; perhaps it was the season or the homily I heard on Sunday, but here you have it.

Loss

In the white
cotton quiet
amid the ragged
rise
and fall,
rise and fall,
your fingers write
memories
on counterpanes
in disappearing
ink.