Each month, write a new collection.
EmptyI think I first learned deathOn the beach looking at shellsWhat are they I said whereDo they come from?Animals my mother saidShe collected shells lovedThe ocean but couldn’t swim(I learned to rescue drowners —But that was much later)Shells are bones, placed on the Outside — the opposite of us.I felt my arm, picked upA broken piece of formerClam. Only take The whole ones, she said.But I preferred the shattered Pieces, they seemed more trueTo what had happened toThose missing in action.
Fantastic Stephanie! Love this. I love the insertion of "I leaned to rescue drowners -- but that was much later)
I like how you connect the shells to your own bones, and realize that these were alive once just like you.
I especially love the last four lines. Perfectly said.
This comment has been removed by the author.
I don't know why but I keep swinging wide when I try for childhood memory. This is almost tangential to what you called for. I feel odd posting it with the others but it's surprising how motivating this exercise has been.SIMPLICITYI tried being separate from the earth,But now am weary and want to add what I know. I want to merge and understand. Fill my mouth with moss.Those philosophers were right.Matter is illusion Built with empty space and quantum shells.Nothing is solid. Light is reflected. Ions repulsed.There is no hard. There is no wet.No time without motion.A construct.A matrix.A projection. What we know never changes (because the details cannot save us)Is it incidental order?All that nothing for nothing:Perverse specificity,Rules within rules within rules,A momentary flash of everything without memory or consequence.And what is it that I know?That my salvation depends upon the chance that regret is a universal virtue.Unless light is more than lightAnd love is something more than in the blood.
Mark this is fantastic. You need to publish it somewhere. Maybe Cadence Collective of East Jasmine Review.
I like this.
nice ending (I always like strong endings).
Face in the CasketGrandpa’s there. I seehis face poking from the casket.Still as stone, silent.Where did he go? Will I seehim again? Is he lost to me?I can’t follow him, I won’t!Shut up! Stop talking!I want to talk to himone more time, ride with himagain on that trip to Palm Springsto help Steve get his car fixed,ride one more time quietin his car - watch the desert,wet from the rain, rush by.
I love that last image. It really evokes the emotion of the piece.
CharlieOvercast and coldThe day we found him thereHe ran off all the timeBut always came back homeWhat I remember mostAs the traffic hurried pastWas the way he almost seemedTo grow more still each timeThat I cried out his name
Oh god. That breaks my heart. Wonderful poem.
I was littleIn the dusty shedLined with filthy shelves.I walked, curious,Smelling the dirty airSeeing junk everywhere.Garage junk - boards, nails, toolsBoxes, plumbing fixtures, jarsWith puppies in them.What? Wait, what?Crazy Aunt Billie Loved her show dogsPuppies stillbornPerfectly formedPreserved like food.I told myself: aunt by marriage.
Wow! Aunt Billie was a strange one. The ending is shocking. Which is what you want there!
I just read this to my husband...he's pouring another scotch....
The HunterMy cat would perch in a tree by the back doorand stare into the sparrow's nesthe would rest his chin on one front pawand inhale the scent left behind by the birdsMy cat would perch in a tree by the back doorand stare into the sparrow's nesthe would rest his chin on one front pawand glare at the motionless eggsMy cat would perch in a tree by the back doorand stare into the sparrow's nesthe would reach in with one front pawand pitch the newly hatched sparrows to their death
This is good. The repetition of the first two lines creates great tension.
Yay! It worked
Yeah, I totally agree with Robert!
some very powerful poets here
When I was just a boyGrowing up with my childhood friendWe would take a pill bug or an earwigto a black widows nest and toss it into the back of her den and watchthe bug try to escape the speedof the spiders clutchesThe boyish mystery of watching the bugget wrapped up by the spider and cocooned into a cotton ball for laterintrigued me Seeing the spider hooked the prey backOnto the wall of her den and hang themFor later was what we did when we wentfishing and collected our stringer full of fishWaiting for the next big one to bite
I want to title this one "The black widow"
Wow, you've caught that thing of life and death seen through the eyes of a kid. Great job! Good title too.
Could you perhaps explain the whole "stresses" thing? I think I might understand what you're referring to but I'm not quite sure.
A Child's CrisisHum, drum, hum.Abibitty, bobbity, boo.Feel life too?Me, not you?Okay, I'll doWhat you tellMe too...yes,You, you, you!The first time,I heard the Devil's voice inMy girlish head...I stopped redIn cold deadRed like sillyOld plums thrownAll against theWall in frustration.I learned he'sFunny and scaryAnd silly andHappy, sinister maybeBeguiled but aPrince in hisOwn right, soI told himYour fate isPerfect for youIn anger repliedHe "I'll killYou, you'll dieIn bitterness derideYour calling of The sweetest life..."You will not,I wont die,I proudly replied."Then give me A loved one"He cunningly said.(Oh no, God.)Alright just notMe, i reallyDont want toBe dead, (breath)With closed eyes,He said "Fiiinnne."With scizzors inHis evil mouth.When i was Only twenty oneMy mom died.