deepundergroundpoetry.com
Unexpectedly Unfamiliar
the moon is being stubborn,
refusing to give way
to the rising sun;
she fell asleep on the couch
and it’s a long, cold walk
back to her room;
the sleek new coffee maker
grumbles a sweet good morning
as I sleepily stumble by,
its cycle, comfortably mundane;
dark and warm,
like fresh flannel sheets
and heavy down comforters
pulled tightly up to chins
while the frost creeps
along doors and windows,
searching for bare skin
to land icy kisses upon
the heavy aroma teases
my senses awake;
routine movements reiterated,
providing this framework -
allowing freedom
in these confined spaces
where I keep
the beguiling chaos
of my injured mind
precariously contained
this morning ritual -
ancient in its practice,
flirting with modern esthetic -
my legs curled into the couch,
as reverent a position
as the prostrate prayer,
cup to lips is as seeking
as forehead to the floor;
I pause, beseeching
in my own way -
stealing this moment
to just listen for it,
the underlying wisdom
I’m supposed to be earning;
but there is absolutely nothing -
and the sound is deafening,
unexpectedly unfamiliar
ghosts of small children
dance on the living room rug,
their peals of cherubic laughter
faded and soft, like whispers
caressing my cheeks
with chubby fingers;
I resist instinctual urge
to reach out for them
one more time;
they’re grown now,
no one needs this mama
cleaning the dirt
from their faces,
not anymore or ever again-
not after I so hastily taught
them to do it
all on their own;
there are new smudges
for me to help clean,
but these kind always leave
my hands idle
we’re in uncharted waters,
with a deeper seat
riding every new horizon;
my anchor pulled itself up
while I wasn’t looking,
and I am adrift in this
eerily silent season,
the fear of the unknown
achingly overwhelming -
bittersweet acceptance
is my new resting place
and I have the worst insomnia
refusing to give way
to the rising sun;
she fell asleep on the couch
and it’s a long, cold walk
back to her room;
the sleek new coffee maker
grumbles a sweet good morning
as I sleepily stumble by,
its cycle, comfortably mundane;
dark and warm,
like fresh flannel sheets
and heavy down comforters
pulled tightly up to chins
while the frost creeps
along doors and windows,
searching for bare skin
to land icy kisses upon
the heavy aroma teases
my senses awake;
routine movements reiterated,
providing this framework -
allowing freedom
in these confined spaces
where I keep
the beguiling chaos
of my injured mind
precariously contained
this morning ritual -
ancient in its practice,
flirting with modern esthetic -
my legs curled into the couch,
as reverent a position
as the prostrate prayer,
cup to lips is as seeking
as forehead to the floor;
I pause, beseeching
in my own way -
stealing this moment
to just listen for it,
the underlying wisdom
I’m supposed to be earning;
but there is absolutely nothing -
and the sound is deafening,
unexpectedly unfamiliar
ghosts of small children
dance on the living room rug,
their peals of cherubic laughter
faded and soft, like whispers
caressing my cheeks
with chubby fingers;
I resist instinctual urge
to reach out for them
one more time;
they’re grown now,
no one needs this mama
cleaning the dirt
from their faces,
not anymore or ever again-
not after I so hastily taught
them to do it
all on their own;
there are new smudges
for me to help clean,
but these kind always leave
my hands idle
we’re in uncharted waters,
with a deeper seat
riding every new horizon;
my anchor pulled itself up
while I wasn’t looking,
and I am adrift in this
eerily silent season,
the fear of the unknown
achingly overwhelming -
bittersweet acceptance
is my new resting place
and I have the worst insomnia
Published 25th Jan 2020
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likes 7
reading list entries 3
comments 5
reads 301
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The author encourages honest critique.
25th Jan 2020 5:38pm
This poem gave me chills, Luna. And this part right there—
my anchor pulled itself up
while I wasn’t looking,
Brought a tear to my eye remembering my own empty nest syndrome. It happens in the blink of an eye, and somehow, despite years of warning, we never see it coming.
You have a wondrous writing style; excellent grammar, spelling, and a form that allows for smooth reading.
my anchor pulled itself up
while I wasn’t looking,
Brought a tear to my eye remembering my own empty nest syndrome. It happens in the blink of an eye, and somehow, despite years of warning, we never see it coming.
You have a wondrous writing style; excellent grammar, spelling, and a form that allows for smooth reading.
25th Jan 2020 8:21pm
I just had to echo that! She continues to be pleasingly rich with original aesthetic.
25th Jan 2020 6:29pm
25th Jan 2020 8:19pm
26th Jan 2020 3:00am
Dear L,
Absolutely gorgeous. An amazing glimpse of how fast time goes and we’re all left wondering how it happened?!
The sweet touch of a pudgy little hand or the sloppy kiss from a chubby cheek. Priceless!
“bittersweet acceptance
is my new resting place
and I have the worst insomnia”
The insomnia never goes away does it? Seems to only intensify the older the kids get.
Beautiful piece! So many loving memories evoked with this write.
Thank you. H🌷
Absolutely gorgeous. An amazing glimpse of how fast time goes and we’re all left wondering how it happened?!
The sweet touch of a pudgy little hand or the sloppy kiss from a chubby cheek. Priceless!
“bittersweet acceptance
is my new resting place
and I have the worst insomnia”
The insomnia never goes away does it? Seems to only intensify the older the kids get.
Beautiful piece! So many loving memories evoked with this write.
Thank you. H🌷
