Friday
Like a lot of my poems, this one started out as a post... I do that a lot... something comes to mind as I'm on Facebook and I just gotta write it down before I lose it. AND afterwards, always, I rework it for a few days or so and finally post it again as a poem. I think sometimes when writing a poem the writer may discover things about his/herself. I don't think the writer sets out to do that, but there's always that possibility. And I believe that during the process of writing this poem I learn a lot about myself as a person and a poet.
the dining room brought to life by gossiping candlewax.
Red, pomegranate memories, I have. Lips like oranges
dipped in chocolate, speaking cream and coffee, delicate
teaspoons, tongue tied condiments. I remember my words
barked too loud, gushing brutal ribbons of obscenities
that whipped your curious smile into a frightened silence.
I'm lucky. I no longer see the scars, the disappointments
you carried around like empty bags of groceries. I starved
your patience almost to death, all the while begging
you to overlook my quarrelsome moods, my devotion
to pain whenever the moon dived behind a regrettable cloud.
If I could, I would render the world as vacant and uncertain
as my life has made me. Then might I slip into the comfort
of a well-oiled grave and never recall how my ability to love
had finally become, once and forever, stone blind.
—rrw o7-o2-13
Like a lot of my poems, this one started out as a post... I do that a lot... something comes to mind as I'm on Facebook and I just gotta write it down before I lose it. AND afterwards, always, I rework it for a few days or so and finally post it again as a poem. I think sometimes when writing a poem the writer may discover things about his/herself. I don't think the writer sets out to do that, but there's always that possibility. And I believe that during the process of writing this poem I learn a lot about myself as a person and a poet.
Stone Blind
There are holes in my eyes, deep white, they seem.
Seeing little more than off-gray, half-lit shadows fromthe dining room brought to life by gossiping candlewax.
Red, pomegranate memories, I have. Lips like oranges
dipped in chocolate, speaking cream and coffee, delicate
teaspoons, tongue tied condiments. I remember my words
barked too loud, gushing brutal ribbons of obscenities
that whipped your curious smile into a frightened silence.
I'm lucky. I no longer see the scars, the disappointments
you carried around like empty bags of groceries. I starved
your patience almost to death, all the while begging
you to overlook my quarrelsome moods, my devotion
to pain whenever the moon dived behind a regrettable cloud.
If I could, I would render the world as vacant and uncertain
as my life has made me. Then might I slip into the comfort
of a well-oiled grave and never recall how my ability to love
had finally become, once and forever, stone blind.
—rrw o7-o2-13
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