Drought
Little bones (some bird’s) sun-bleached: the world
overexposed, sun-rotted. That shadow inside me an
inverse mirror where dazzled dim blindness pools.
Stagnant puddle: cyclopean eye lying in the mudflat,
lying about the cyan sky. I’d give back my share of
light-and-dark to quiet the flies buzzing around its edge.
Chalk dust: powdered graves, ancient diatom sea-drift
compacted drought on drought now talc exhaled by the
last hot breath of summer, and I whisper again for rain.
Sometimes I think I'd like to write some poetry - and then I read what others write - like this...and I go back to what I think I can do. :-D
ReplyDeleteOh my, this is quite lyrical and clearly a departure. Something new?
ReplyDeleteThe inward mirror
ReplyDeleteturned out
Reflects the sun's dazzling light
A whisper of rain comes
refreshing the powdered graves
giving new life
to bleached bones
The eye sees
the puddle no longer stagnant
and is thankful to share
the light and darkness
Have a good Memorial Day.
Mise -- If you have the itch, scratch it. One has to start somewhere...
ReplyDeleteR -- Sometimes the late summer heat brings on a deep melancholy, and every now and then that low-water mark gives rise to a poem.
Ed -- :-) Thanks, I needed that!
Ooooh, multi-multi-talented. ;)
ReplyDeleteHey, this is good! I hope you're able to post more poems from time to time.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful!
ReplyDelete