Splatters of Poetry

Wednesday River

Trees stand straight, leafless, erect
like yesterday's soldiers
too old for battle, too proud to walk away.
Beyond them the brown tangle
the twig-like mesh
bushes without leaves and
roots with no trees attached,
indistinguishable.
And further still the river
the Wednesday river.
Never in a hurry
always on her way
somewhere.
Always laughing at the young couples and
lonely old men
the only ones, anymore who
come to hear her stories
to see her wink in the thin winter sunlight
like the backs of a thousand tiny fish.
The children and the artists are gone, now.
Off to college, off to get married;
nobody writes poems when they're happy.
She lies forgotten,
oblivious
like an old book, or a grandmother
whose stories have grown worn and
tattered at the edges.
She moves on.

posted by Erin @ 6:27 PM 3 comments

Proximity, a response

Yes, the pain is almost indistinguishable
(undigestable)
from the fruit of the vine
both so red and blood-like
when we come to quench our thirst.

Yes, we are both sore and sick
from endless nights at sea
and the sirens' whisper, never growing faint
to bash our skulls
on the rocks of desire.

Yes, my face is weathered
and yours is too, my darling
sun and rain and days and nights on the water
have carved Knowledge into our flesh,

and we are not the same.

Yes, you were right when you said we have
come undone
and our hearts are soaking wet
unravelling thread
But take my hand, dearest

we are being rewoven
(can't you feel it through the rain?)
and when your heart and mine have been fully knit
we shall become the cloak that drapes around
other shoulders

and we shall rise warm and glorious
to comfort the weary at sea.

posted by Erin @ 5:46 AM 1 comments