deepundergroundpoetry.com

Stilt

~~If only I could paint like Rockwell  
& build like Wright~~Me

 
(Prologue)
 
Iím 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 itís 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 youíre 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 deathís 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.
Layla
Written by Layla
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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ImperfectedStone summultima souladareatease Ahavati DanielChristensen Trouble_Loves_Me EdibleWords Hunterapsych nomoth Peanut
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