Emotions bulk under the surface.
Parched thoughts search through drawers,
looking for lost socks, ones missing a matching twin.
Burly ogres guard the door, eying me with cyclops grins,
thousands of books piled high around them, dog eared ravenously.
Next to me I find a strip of old photographs, proof sheets,
black and white miniatures bordered with numbers,
thin shavings of the early years, glamorous tinted skin,
debutante attitudes with the light always shining from behind.
My face looks back at me, learning from my lines,
taking notes on little scraps of discarded catalogs
lost under the sea, rolling among waves of salty tears.
Cordoned off are rooms with freshly cut flowers,
bouquets of roses stripped of thorns, just beginning
to wilt, though the shades are drawn, the door key-less.
Saints and sinners meet in the room next door,
a détente to sort things out. They share a meal
of smoked ham and lentil stew, homemade with love.
The weather holds its breath, waiting
for the key to the stopped clock on the wall.
But they leave by a secret door, un-noticed.
The tub overflows, drowning
all the roses, whose petals float out
with one note scribbled on each,
notes of a song of gratitude, randomly humming
as they hover out the window and out to sea.
And the wind chimes pick up the tune
as if they already knew.
technorati tags- poems, poetry, postmodern poems, modern American poems
Your windchimes are so wise.
I hear the downside of a transition here, like when the party’s over and I’m not sure it really happened because there’s no one around for me to retell the events to, to get a reading from. So I question all of my feelings. They were good feelings. Weren’t they? I didn’t just imagine them. I didn’t ride my feelings to a place that wasn’t real? I need to go somewhere safe to take care that my feelings are put away before I worry over rose petals that float on feeling, er water overflowing.
They were real. The bell ringer heard them clear across the forest and she heard their echo beating in her heart.
You are right Liz- the windchimes know.
Have you heard of John Ashbury? He’s a gay New York school poet. I was reading about him and his life, which reminds me of mine, except that he’s a famous poet. He writes by dipping into his subconscious and picking out images and stringing them together. This is what I did here.
I wanted to free up my images, and play with them.
Terrific and bravo!
Thank you, Antonia. That means a lot coming from you!
Dave,
I like the succession of images you use to create both a sense of longing and loss. The scene of the saints and sinners gathering to share a meal was especially significant, and creates a poignant contrast to the weather. Nice.
Scot
Scot-there’s a lot of water in this scene. I was cleansing debris…
Yes, dear Garnet!!!!!!!
This is really great!
This feels dream-like, stream of consciousness. But it’s not just that. There’s connection and disconnection, desire and the unreachable, longing and loss, memory and recognition… it’s all there. Ending with notes of gratitude floating out the window, to which the wind chimes answer in kind. Very interesting.
The windchimes will always play with the slightest breeze so that the bell ringer hears them and knows you are still living there.
Liz- I know, the wind has barely moved around here, so the chimes are almost mute. But sometimes a windless day is beautiful for its errie stillness.