Where once the paper was rolled and tossed,
unstrung boots and bathrobe,
the undertone
the whack and creak of morning;
the satisfied fear
moored to the mailbox;
affixed with stamp and colored stationary,
a wind whips dry and tasteless.
screen door with a busted hinge
batters the frame
catching on the yellowed paper
aged by occasional rain,
a trike with a missing pedal
underneath the hedge
once red, it seems to be
left over
since weeds grow between the back wheel
and the seat.
it is much the same across the street
a tree has fallen in the yard
its few leaves twisted and weak;
maybe the fear has leaked
into the dust devils which wind
about the empty avenue
whirling old news
as though ghosts could read.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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Oh wow this is a great poem. It makes me think of the dry desert or a ghost town, something lost. I think the imagery flows well, and I could relate to the bitter feelings and loneliness.
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A Ghost town!
We have areas here in Cleveland where the blight is one that makes the eyes tear up. The lack of resources and money pounds silently on the drum of reality. The beat is a bit off kilter for me, as I have not been gainfully employed in fourteen months. Reminds me of the corroded car battery under the pine tree in our backyard.
I really hope better days are somewhere on the horizon. At least I have heightened my survival techniques, and I have an electrician for a husband. We are blessed even in the valley.
There are many levels to this work of vivid poetry. I always love that when I come to visit your words dear friend.
Much Love & Respect ♥
Renee
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Are we inactive when change comes and what we used to know ceases to exist? Or do we just over look what was always there in the first place because we want to only see what we remembered as all the pretty colors and not the intimacies of grey. C
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like whispering ghosts to the atmosphere, strained with the ink-marks conspire the fear, and the suffering; travelling through type a song dies, and haunts me (?!)
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amazing
decay and inactivity
as if...
oh well
it would be smoking otherwise I guess
and smoking kills
is this about that video/show?
because I just seen it and
enough is not enough
people are always right
who is afraid
I mean who is afraid of the unknown
I mean who's not afraid of the novelty on a screen but of real unknown
with snakes than go swoosh through tall grass
and flesh amateur bushes (not a sexual reference, just maybe a referee)
who loves the cracked paint, the smell of sepia photographs, the missing wheel,
the taste of grass straw flossed between teeth… the dust bunnies are on parade, to yell cunt is to be independent.
don’t ask me what I want but I don’t want memories
I want new old that is actually coloured, not catalog painted.
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You captured a sense of decay and inactivity very well.
Enjoyed your write.
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You covered Lisa.
sigh
But really ... wow. Talk about dropping your reader into the poem -- not telling --- every word a vibrates -- hey! I was reading Mr. Eliot this morning and he said:
"The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective correlative"; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events, which shall be the formula of that particular emotion. . . ."
The trike screams childhood, innocence, carefree times
but of course all covered over with weeds
this is fantastic Lute despite the fact that it feels like the waste land.
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