More Poetry by Robert R. Woods

June 16, 2o13

   I'm sure this one was posted earlier on my blog, but I wanted to play around with new graphic ideas.

Some Thing at the Door

 

A sip of cold coffee… glancing up,

a shadow standing in the doorway.
My heart beats somewhat slower
than a drum, somewhat faster than
the march of mourners to the grave.

 

In his hands bloom two large fists,

scarred knuckles, wrinkled flesh
marred by liver spots, dark brown…
the lifeless color of dried blood.

 

His hair a memory to the top of his creased

skull, but on the sides and back still alive in long,
gray strains of what was once unruly red hair.

 

I recognize his eyes too.

They stare at me… blue rocks,
hard unnerving glare,
a look that carves itself,
bores itself into my brain.

 

He wants to talk, his lips move

but there’s not a sound… no,
there is a sound… the one
that leaves make on a windy,
autumn day, the one the dead make…
a rattling, breathy sound.

 

I blink… he’s gone… just like that,

like a spirit or a dream. No, a thing
it was… standing at the door.
—rrw o2-19-13