deepundergroundpoetry.com
Slim, Black Letters
tires wrapped in cages
ride tenuously along
this icy highway,
white wind howling
against the passenger window
where my head rests
softly in my warmest hat;
my breath escapes,
expanding outward
across the glass
in a heated fog;
I’m suddenly so tempted
to scrawl my name,
slim black letters
against the lacy surface,
raising my finger
with intention
yet, instead returning
the errant hand
to my lap
my mother’s voice -
awfully loud
for not being there
at all -
warns me against
such childish displays,
she hated when I dirtied
her clean windows;
the shrillness of her tone
haunts me
the same way the sound
of squeaky clean glass
sliding against a twin does;
it sits in the back of my throat
and threatens to come out
in a scream -
but I couldn’t then
and I won’t now
I can still hear her sighing,
eyes rolled to heaven,
where her God had forsaken her
to a life with all of me;
stop being so
loud
smart
haughty
silly
sad
talkative
angry
stop being so
much
blinking, I return to my old truck
the dash lit
in a comforting shade of yellow;
my eyes turn obediently
to the path
in front of me -
an automatic thing,
the disconnected submission;
and yeah I’m aware of that,
but there’s comfort found there, too;
I watch the crystalline snow
whip across the road
and my mind conjures
Mr. Attenborough
and his lyrical voice
sliding like honey
along my frazzled nerves,
soothing my frantic energy
as he tells me
about the penguins
and my mouth
turns up it’s corners
as I see them shuffle
fat bellies over flat feet,
making their way across
this barren landscape
ride tenuously along
this icy highway,
white wind howling
against the passenger window
where my head rests
softly in my warmest hat;
my breath escapes,
expanding outward
across the glass
in a heated fog;
I’m suddenly so tempted
to scrawl my name,
slim black letters
against the lacy surface,
raising my finger
with intention
yet, instead returning
the errant hand
to my lap
my mother’s voice -
awfully loud
for not being there
at all -
warns me against
such childish displays,
she hated when I dirtied
her clean windows;
the shrillness of her tone
haunts me
the same way the sound
of squeaky clean glass
sliding against a twin does;
it sits in the back of my throat
and threatens to come out
in a scream -
but I couldn’t then
and I won’t now
I can still hear her sighing,
eyes rolled to heaven,
where her God had forsaken her
to a life with all of me;
stop being so
loud
smart
haughty
silly
sad
talkative
angry
stop being so
much
blinking, I return to my old truck
the dash lit
in a comforting shade of yellow;
my eyes turn obediently
to the path
in front of me -
an automatic thing,
the disconnected submission;
and yeah I’m aware of that,
but there’s comfort found there, too;
I watch the crystalline snow
whip across the road
and my mind conjures
Mr. Attenborough
and his lyrical voice
sliding like honey
along my frazzled nerves,
soothing my frantic energy
as he tells me
about the penguins
and my mouth
turns up it’s corners
as I see them shuffle
fat bellies over flat feet,
making their way across
this barren landscape
Published 8th Jan 2020
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 7
reading list entries 3
comments 15
reads 331
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
8th Jan 2020 5:14am
A wonderful write and so well done in my opinion. I also enjoy it because i get to see a snapshot of your life.
Blossom. Like a flower, like a firework. Be you and not your mother's voice.
Because you're beautiful as you and nothing more. Proof is up there in your words. I would any book if it displayed as much as that.
Blossom. Like a flower, like a firework. Be you and not your mother's voice.
Because you're beautiful as you and nothing more. Proof is up there in your words. I would any book if it displayed as much as that.
8th Jan 2020 5:32am
Thank you so much for your kindness, and for hearing my voice in my words. It means the world ♥️.
It's like wiping a little frost away, so we get a passing glimpse of your inner passenger we see from the neighboring vehicle traveling in a parallel moment.
Another inspiring write.
Another inspiring write.
8th Jan 2020 4:33pm
8th Jan 2020 10:34am
Dear L,
It’s as though we’re in the truck with you as your inner voice tells us the story behind your memory. My dad couldn’t stand when we did that either. I never understood what the big deal was. Echoing the above comments. As for all the adjectives listed as memories of you being “too much” well, I strongly disagree your vibrant, kind, talented self are what is displayed here. Shine on! Fantastic write! H🌷
It’s as though we’re in the truck with you as your inner voice tells us the story behind your memory. My dad couldn’t stand when we did that either. I never understood what the big deal was. Echoing the above comments. As for all the adjectives listed as memories of you being “too much” well, I strongly disagree your vibrant, kind, talented self are what is displayed here. Shine on! Fantastic write! H🌷
8th Jan 2020 5:02pm
Thank you, Honoria! My mama hated when we touched the windows or mirrors. I loved writing my name in the fog of the mirror in the bathroom so my sister would see it when it was her turn. I never understood her displeasure at it, and I taught my boys to do it. It’s just good fun.
8th Jan 2020 2:46pm
This is superb poetry, Luna. Absolutely superb. It has all the qualities an excellent poem should. The tension between the past and present is palpable, yet soothing in the way you transition your thoughts.
Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for sharing.
8th Jan 2020 5:04pm
Thank you so much, Ahavati. I had planned to edit this one heavily as I was writing - just trying to get the bones out there. But after stepping back from it, I think it tells a story in the only way it can, so I’ll leave it be. Catharsis is touchy sometimes and it’s best to let it flow in the direction it wants. Thank you for your kind words 💖
8th Jan 2020 5:06pm
8th Jan 2020 8:56pm
A beautiful, full bodied write, shades of past falling over the present, your soulful voice, emotions coming across with clarity, details in perfect proportion. Winsome and heart resonating. 💖
9th Jan 2020 1:27am
Thank you, Daniel. I’m so glad the emotion came through in a relatable way 💜
Anonymous
8th Jan 2020 10:36pm
You are very efficient at getting out the story that needs to be said without excess wordage bogging it down - no needless tangents or padding for the sake of achieving some form or inner vision that fails to manifest. It's a major key to your success as a writer.
9th Jan 2020 1:27am
Thank you so much for the kind appraisal of my words, JB. It’s so much appreciated.
10th Jan 2020 5:33am
The Earth
Us individually
Nature
Now
David Attemborough brings more value than the cling of foul views still echoing. Some vines take forever to rot and die, even after you cut the roots. Defoliate with that lens
Us individually
Nature
Now
David Attemborough brings more value than the cling of foul views still echoing. Some vines take forever to rot and die, even after you cut the roots. Defoliate with that lens
10th Jan 2020 7:32pm
