deepundergroundpoetry.com
Of Bones & Hands
I.
when I was eight
we walked to school
via an overgrown path
affectionately known
as The Spinney
I remember leaves
crunching beneath
autumn boots
when I spotted
a small skull in the dirt,
the flesh all gone.
The books said
it was a squirrel
I wrapped it up
took it home
cleaned it
carried it earnestly
to show & tell that week
where I talked about
my strange treasure
the faces divided
amongst shock and awe
where death made me
five new friends
ii.
the first boy I ever loved
was the vicar’s son
he had long fingers
that danced effortlessly
over the neck of a guitar
I watched, pondering
what else he could strum
to this day, never knowing.
Years later,
he became successful
with one of his songs
wrote meaningful lyrics,
played Glastonbury once
married a girl
who knew his wrists
in the silent dark
iii.
sometimes
I pluck animals from
moist moorland dirt
mandibles
hip bones
spines
say a prayer
for what once was
allow grief
to softly find me
iv.
the bible
talks of performing miracles
of expelling demons
with the laying of hands
I often wonder
if that’s where it started
the power in that,
the amplification
of all things good
v.
when I see
his collarbones
they rise from him
like tumbling graves
and I am alive
revering a time
when to explore
barren land
was to marvel at
the beauty of life.
Sometimes I lose myself
in the poetry of his body,
in the small of his bare back
curl up in that V on his neck
knowing home exists
as I wait for dawn,
the sound of the lark
knowing grey wilds
have forever left their mark
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 8
reading list entries 3
comments 5
reads 183
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.