You’re creating a story
folded into the pages of the book
It’s not the story the author intended.
It’s not what people expect to see.
But your folds and cuts
tell your story,
and your story
Once upon a time
you sent me cassette tapes in the mail,
one sided conversations taped in the car
on your commute to the radio station,
elucidating the state of our universe
and illuminating that eternity
I was so fond of,
while people glanced from their vehicles,
confused or amused as you talked to yourself
but really me.
Once upon a time,
I talked to you,
but really myself,
elucidating the state of an imaginary universe
that would not become real,
no matter how many words wrapped around it,
or how many miles of magnetic tape professed it.
Once upon a time
we shared a fairy tale,
and when I listen to us now, I wonder that we ever believed
in the intensity of the narrative we told ourselves.
The line of naked men was long, snaking along a corridor
in the recruitment centre, with whispered jokes and camaraderie,
then the naked line was shorter,
then just one naked man standing awkwardly alone,
in the line of now clothed young men.
He fought flaming cheeks as they studied him punctiliously.
“No, you won’t do,” the army medical team announced. “Heart murmur.”
A great escape, that. The boys who went to war never quite came home.
But that heart murmured along for another three quarters of a century,
serving his country by staying alive..
My dad had a lot of stories.
Apparently I’ll be working through my grief setting them down as poems.
The poetry is loud tonight,
smashing and crashing through
synapses of my neocortex,
drowning the bovine bellows
of my bedmate.
Short stories are shouting.
Poetry is proclaiming itself.
Words are wailing.
They are insistent
in the seams between sleep,
and will not quieten
until I write them down.
(This is post 1717 on the blog. It was very loudly proclaiming itself when I tried to go to bed last night, and would not stop until I got out my little book kept beside the bed, turned on the little book light, and wrote down the essentials). Do you have this problem, too?
Gathering evil intentions
Hell hath no fury
what will people say
behind your back?
You’re high on a pedestal
can be vicious,
Even if they’re crazy.
It’s not the falling off
the tall pillar that hurts,
it’s the sudden stop
The return of the Monday Meme!
On Facebook, one of my former students, all grown up and living in Newfoundland, posted this photo of her daughter that just cries out to be a Monday Meme, and so, with her permission, now it is!
While I post the photo on Mondays, you don’t have to post your writing on Mondays. You can post whenever you choose. If you enjoy this one, click ‘Monday Meme’ at right, and respond to any of the old posts.