Not even laughter marked the passing
where the final hop was made,
where I found time
waiting with a smokeless cigarette,
and shadows played burlesque tragedy
upon bones once called foundation.
There were memories in the scraps of smiles.
Cracked and bloody in the marsh,
a framed lie will sink into the sight unseen.
One life at a time
these homes just
stepping stones between—
thank God there’s soul to find cause
you can’t go home again.
The Waking Den 
This is an intricate one, Chris. I’m seeing people as edifices and buildings as personalities–esp like the picture of a framed lie, heavily sinking into the marsh.
You read me like a book, my friend! Glad you enjoyed–it was rather hard to capture the feeling I was going for, and this was one I wrote over several times before settling on this version…
You really painted a picture with your words, passing of time with the stepping stones of home and life, nice!
Complex, layered, beautiful and this image will stay with me for a long time:
“shadows played burlesque tragedy”
where I found time
waiting with a smokeless cigarette,
and shadows played burlesque tragedy
upon bones once called foundation
really like the description in this chris…def there are layers here…not being able to go home is a stirring part for me quite honestly as that is something i surely count on…
But of course. For a family man, I can certainly understand that my friend. It’s not a physical place I reference, of course, but a sentiment, a feeling…and I’m glad you liked the descriptions; wasn’t sure if the multiple images would come across as too varied, and too abstract for effective delivery–glad to they worked.
This spoke to me of family secrets, the pain of awakening to human failings, and the journey to find a place in the world. It’s a layered work undergirded by apt language and sharp metaphors.
It is a dark place, our world–and all within it have their failings. There’s only so long we can go about in childlike innocence, blind to the fact…all the more, this stirs a yearning, a longing, a dream. Thank you for your kind words, Anna. Glad you enjoyed its workings.
the imagery you bring about here is complex, where I can see it overlay multiple scenes…very intricate development. ~ Rose
A fascinating read – I liked this very much.
Oh I’ve been down this old street before. ” Where only shadows left who played burlesque tragedy”…ghosts coming out like pictures of over-made up 50s movie stars to guide you down Broadway, around Hollywood, London’s West End…singing like Ethel Merman ..no need for mikes, fellas. See that guy on 42nd street, uh-huh, that’s Tom Wolfe..I think he said it first…and it was true.
Seems like you’re on a roll yourself there, Gay. I sense another poem in the works!
Every story is about going home in the end, wherever home may be.
Home is where the heart is, then, and all that?
I picture you out on the moors with a walking stick and a backpack on this, Chris. Your final hop to the top of a hill with a view.
I agree — TG there is soul, what it’s all about.
And for what it’s worth — YOU are now 5th in line for me to make one of my little sidebar friend buttons.
Hope Michigan is treating you well today!
A great eye to the past.
Cheers,
Mark Butkus