ROUGH DRAFT. To revise. Sometimes things come out and I am not sure what they mean, but for this one, I know it’s an autumn facing winter poem. To work on and revise. Thanks for reading!
The Nine Month Sentence–(Must work on this title. Sounds weird.)
Stunned. Nine months of
little sun, closed streaked
windows to follow.
We had not
used our summer well.
We had not slept
under a June blue sky,
toes curled in fresh green.
We had not wrapped nights
in tender sighs under stars;
were wasted in worries.
If we slip outside now,
we might walk unnoticed.
We might find the source
of the crescent, the crickets,
flee with them.
************* Let’s slip outside
find sources of
maybe we’ll leave
Worked a lot on editing this one, and it’s ready to submit…but where? It’s no longer..Nine Month Sentence…because winter is not that long. Other good revisions… now to look for a home for this revised and edited (for the better, I hope!) poem. #poetrycommunity #poetry
(From a work in progress)
The heart knew it was 55 years ago that you last went to that restaurant with your uncle. Do you say something to him?
Probably not because back then you were a child who was too small to even look out of the backseat of his car and see the snow covered streets, streets with no one but children who had been forced from their home during another Sunday night alcohol fueled rage. Do you say something, hoping he would remember?
Do you look at him and realize that back then he was barely more than a teenager himself, so young and proud of his red 1963 Chevy with back then unheard of features of automatic windows and doors. I drove all the way from the city to pick up the kids, your uncle said, so they wouldn’t be walking in that empty field or the swamp.
You look at your uncle and realize he’s nearly 80 now. You look at his hands that have had dozens of operations from damage done during the lifespan of a laborer.
Yet he still has that boyish smile, the quick wit, the quick temper.
But he’s 80 and you’re not eight years old anymore. You have a career, an education, a loving kind spouse.
But this is a gratitude 55 years in the making , for taking a child off the street that night, making jokes, buying hot chocolate, anything other than spending a cold winter night alone outside.
You can’t say thank you for that to an 80-year-old uncle. You just can’t. You’ve never spoken about it.
You reach across the table, take the check, walk to the counter and pay.
A few years ago, I found this old rough draft of a poem I started after we had moved. I keep losing it and then finding it. This time, I won’t lose it, but I will revise, edit, and work on the poem. There is something to the “moving on” theme that is compelling–maybe escape is the correct term?
In any case, thanks for reading.
Note: …..many stanzas before this…won’t post here so I can publish one day… and took out middle stanzas
Memories, you said. I cannot move.
These have been
the best years of my life here.
How can you say that, I asked,
not wanting to see the paint-peeled walls
or the missing tiled floors even one more time.
They were my years with you, you said.
Today I looked for photos
I am sure I threw away in my
haste to leave and I wonder
how I could have been so cruel
how can I
live with such moving love?
I wrote two poems recently in a very different style from what I usually write. I brought one poem to a writing workshop tonight. Three of my colleagues in class cried. (They said it was a good thing.) It was a poem about the changing seasons and when I got to the line about when summer returns to autumn? I heard sniffling.
I think I’ll play around with the poem a few more times and make it better. Then submit it somewhere.
***Done. Worked a lot on this poem and submitted with the other one.
And what’s with speech to text that it does not recognize POEM? It types it as POME. Isn’t POEM a common word anymore?
Thanks for reading!
What a pleasure to find an old rough draft of a poem on an old flash drive. I was looking for a document when I found this, simply titled: “Work on this poem.”
So I will work on this poem. I’m not sure about the rhetorical questions or who the “you” in the poem is, but I like a bit of mystery.
It starts like this…
wrap blistered feet.
Earthbound, I walk
How would I drive?
Bridges stop around curves,
hidden in the fog or dust
a glimpse of surprised faces
into the wide river of our poetry.
Where could I drive?
Then it goes on, but I won’t post more since I want to revise and rework to submit.
Thanks for reading.
Parking here to edit and revise
The woods, late spring
pond at sunsets
white tail pulled down
new leaves. The hawk flew low
Over the walking path
my shadow squat and low
no hooves, no wild thing.
Even the blue jay flew low
that night, while grasshoppers
jumped quickly across the path
my short shadowed sadness and dread
belied the flood of gold.