You'll see the imagery-relevance of this soon enough. Image by: Chris Galford.
In keeping with the Den’s theme of travel this week (see previous post for update on that little number, mind you), what few free moments I found today were spent typing up this little number for you folks. Wanted to capture a sense of depart-wait a second! What am I doing, giving away the meanings? That’s for you people to figure out after all – don’t know if I did well, if I just give all the secrets away.
Even so, I think it needs a little touch of work still (and yes, I know I get snipped at by folks for saying that any time I do it on here…but nonetheless!), but that’s the beauty of the blogosphere – so many wonderful minds out there, ready to give and to take, critique, grow, and flourish in the presence of their fellow creative community members. Some silly people believe that if you aren’t content with it, it should be hidden away, kept from public eye until you are…to keep one’s self-opinions and dignity high I suppose. Personally, I like the reality check – and if it’s bad, goodness, shouldn’t a writer wish to know? So as ever…critique welcome!
Consequently, if you haven’t, (and particularly if you’re not wandering in here from D’Verse Poetry), you should give this wonderful community a look. Lovely site, lots of great people about – and if you’re at all familiar with One Stop Poetry, you’ll find lots of familiar faces there.
Now Boarding
The yellow dress sits at the bedside table.
Bare feet upon the tiled trail,
smooth lines catch the dirt,
end in mountains under
Phrygian skies
where words give to mudslides
of heart; no sneakers
will bear them there.
It was the shoes they left behind.
When worlds light by tails
there’s no room left to fill,
the memories move like clockwork –
bodies remain,
lost along the long roads
rendered Silken; eyes open
to coal bell rings.
No one speaks of the bill till it’s due.
They always say to breathe–
she prays that he will breathe.
Across the prairie roams old
Model T
beating out the departure chords,
soot-lined; black worlds
always greet the young.
The yellow dress sits at the bedside table.
She would take his hand,
tell him blisters fade with time,
that their shoes will find him still
in Requiem
somewhere beyond that grey road
they wait; clock ticks
as she offers him the keys.
The Waking Den 