deepundergroundpoetry.com
Stilt
~~If only I could paint like Rockwell
& build like Wright~~Me
(Prologue)
I’m not sure which came first:
pang of familiar finality, or
numb moments of calamity.
Knotted pull and tug, beneath
offerings of benign serenity.
Although, the path was clear
He was gone before I got there.
I still remember the vacant eyes
piece of my heart clenched in his fist.
*
*
*
*
There was no room in this house
crowded by Indians, Spanish and Jews
crawling the corridors, displaced, lost.
If it’s not your mother holding a silver spoon
then another woman, gnawing at roots
who lost her footing and her shoe.
Tell me which way doors swing
no closure to hope and fear
re-blooming regrets with fading steps
embracing strangers wandering in
We have been here before
fate waned to howling gales
Do you recall?
Narcissi by threshold
broken bricks on Kentucky stone
stairway to the attic, cobwebs in our hair
climbed steps, creak..creak..creak
counting one by one, like a hymn
dreams intertwined.
This is the place we called home
origami musings in a paper fold.
Shred anthology with peeled paint
scatter confetti on blades of grass
young and wild
like mad-March-hare
dare steeped, world our stage
beauty amiss in a grain.
Strike the hearth with thunder and light
feeding hunger; life & love
thick with marrow, passions alight.
*
*
*
*
*
I heard you whisper in my ear
it was beautiful (I think)
Just like I imagined it to be
perhaps I invented you
perhaps you’re not real..
hush, my love..not so loud
our unborn children will wake at dawn
shut the windows, bolt the doors
our brilliance shines
today, not tomorrow.
*
*
*
*
(Epilogue)
The dream ended before it began.
I knelt by the Narcissi
which had bloomed early this year
my hands in the rich soil
toiling, carved cocooned with trust.
I felt you behind me
with warm May breeze
lifting my hair, falling on my ears
dashed to death’s door
this lifetime was too short
tending bouquet of mistakes
a distance of a grain.
I think I birthed you
I think you were real
In a house on sticks.
& build like Wright~~Me
(Prologue)
I’m not sure which came first:
pang of familiar finality, or
numb moments of calamity.
Knotted pull and tug, beneath
offerings of benign serenity.
Although, the path was clear
He was gone before I got there.
I still remember the vacant eyes
piece of my heart clenched in his fist.
*
*
*
*
There was no room in this house
crowded by Indians, Spanish and Jews
crawling the corridors, displaced, lost.
If it’s not your mother holding a silver spoon
then another woman, gnawing at roots
who lost her footing and her shoe.
Tell me which way doors swing
no closure to hope and fear
re-blooming regrets with fading steps
embracing strangers wandering in
We have been here before
fate waned to howling gales
Do you recall?
Narcissi by threshold
broken bricks on Kentucky stone
stairway to the attic, cobwebs in our hair
climbed steps, creak..creak..creak
counting one by one, like a hymn
dreams intertwined.
This is the place we called home
origami musings in a paper fold.
Shred anthology with peeled paint
scatter confetti on blades of grass
young and wild
like mad-March-hare
dare steeped, world our stage
beauty amiss in a grain.
Strike the hearth with thunder and light
feeding hunger; life & love
thick with marrow, passions alight.
*
*
*
*
*
I heard you whisper in my ear
it was beautiful (I think)
Just like I imagined it to be
perhaps I invented you
perhaps you’re not real..
hush, my love..not so loud
our unborn children will wake at dawn
shut the windows, bolt the doors
our brilliance shines
today, not tomorrow.
*
*
*
*
(Epilogue)
The dream ended before it began.
I knelt by the Narcissi
which had bloomed early this year
my hands in the rich soil
toiling, carved cocooned with trust.
I felt you behind me
with warm May breeze
lifting my hair, falling on my ears
dashed to death’s door
this lifetime was too short
tending bouquet of mistakes
a distance of a grain.
I think I birthed you
I think you were real
In a house on sticks.
Published 13th Feb 2020
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 19
reading list entries 13
comments 12
reads 233
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
13th Feb 2020 1:24pm
I already had a lump in my throat before that final stanza. . .
Beautiful, Laya.
Beautiful, Laya.
13th Feb 2020 3:28pm
13th Feb 2020 11:43pm
14th Feb 2020 1:23am
14th Feb 2020 2:02pm
An interesting eloquent epic , you express in a noteworthy poetic way. Kudos,.
Plz Pleez do read n comment my newest poem too.
Plz Pleez do read n comment my newest poem too.
There's a lot that can be said about everything here. It's absolutely bursting with nuances of spirit and meaning. Where you open is deeply relatable. I remember moments like that, where you can feel everything collapsing with a whimper and are powerless, where you're devastated into embers and lying there with your hands at your sides, on your chest, looking up at the ceiling, wondering how you and everything around you still seems so whole and ordinary, when your spirit is wailing absence.
Powerful close to the opening. Vivid and visceral doesn't quite say it, but language is a barrier we're always trying to traverse.
Indians, Spanish and Jews, crowding the corridors. It makes me think perhaps of paintings on the walls, all their meanings and value and the fixation upon them, drowning out your own value and meanings. Silver spoon, lost shoe, seems allusions of fairy tales, perhaps metaphors of the archetypal, playing out between you, perhaps a sense of dystopian unreality, Alice in Wonderlandesque.
Embracing strangers, wandering in. It may be trite and forgive me, but I am reminded of the old song, If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with. I heard that first when I was a boy and had only a vague idea of the sorrow and practicality of this compromise. I am reminded of how people who die in some kind of sudden tragedy are often found holding one another. I think that is what we want, throughout our lives, in one sense or another. To be held, to be beheld. To be understood.
This strikes me with a pang of melancholy. I suppose the whole mien of the piece does, of loss of intimacy, loss of purpose and meaning, where things are collapsing in upon themselves, ribs meet in a grin of starvation.
Fate waned to howling gales. Purpose and design swallowed up by darkness, chaos. Powerful. The ascent to the attic. The closing allusion, origami musings in a paper fold. Perhaps secrets here, secret intimacies remembered.
Your epilogue is hauntingly gorgeous. The rich soil, it all speaks of something that was not what it appeared to be perhaps. Some deep loss, disappointment.
You are an astounding poet.
Powerful close to the opening. Vivid and visceral doesn't quite say it, but language is a barrier we're always trying to traverse.
Indians, Spanish and Jews, crowding the corridors. It makes me think perhaps of paintings on the walls, all their meanings and value and the fixation upon them, drowning out your own value and meanings. Silver spoon, lost shoe, seems allusions of fairy tales, perhaps metaphors of the archetypal, playing out between you, perhaps a sense of dystopian unreality, Alice in Wonderlandesque.
Embracing strangers, wandering in. It may be trite and forgive me, but I am reminded of the old song, If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with. I heard that first when I was a boy and had only a vague idea of the sorrow and practicality of this compromise. I am reminded of how people who die in some kind of sudden tragedy are often found holding one another. I think that is what we want, throughout our lives, in one sense or another. To be held, to be beheld. To be understood.
This strikes me with a pang of melancholy. I suppose the whole mien of the piece does, of loss of intimacy, loss of purpose and meaning, where things are collapsing in upon themselves, ribs meet in a grin of starvation.
Fate waned to howling gales. Purpose and design swallowed up by darkness, chaos. Powerful. The ascent to the attic. The closing allusion, origami musings in a paper fold. Perhaps secrets here, secret intimacies remembered.
Your epilogue is hauntingly gorgeous. The rich soil, it all speaks of something that was not what it appeared to be perhaps. Some deep loss, disappointment.
You are an astounding poet.
27th Feb 2020 3:39am
Does any of it really matter...the emptiness, the void...our thoughts, wishes, fill it but to what avail...there will be redemption until it all happens over and over again
27th Feb 2020 3:43am
Anonymous
- Edited 29th Apr 2020 5:45pm
10th Apr 2020 5:12pm
<< post removed >>
8th May 2020 00:00am
...piece of my heart clenched in his fist. Holy letters of the alphabet...I nearly missed this wonderful poem Layla. Each line screams gently into the Poet's ears...my ears loved it my friend.
Peace...Harry
Peace...Harry
9th May 2020 1:52pm
Thank you Harry.
If a person asks me what is my most favorite or the best creation to date, this poem is.
Everything else i've written, pales in comparison cause its my most personal poem ever.
If a person asks me what is my most favorite or the best creation to date, this poem is.
Everything else i've written, pales in comparison cause its my most personal poem ever.
10th May 2020 11:05pm
