Sometimes I watch them hover
over my boys' pallet treehouse
clinging to that weak-limbed pine.
I know they see me, dishpan hands
scooping dog crap from holy sod,
my face broken red from men
who never arrive.
They swarm my locked suburb gate,
whisper snippets of cowboy drone
or mimic the scratchy caress
of a cigarette diva.
See them follow the hung curve
of datura I planted while summer
slept under frozen routine.
Just let me be. I push them
into rust along a tilted gutter,
think little of their gypsy way
passing names back and forth.
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Comments: 20
Our planet has more than humans struggling for survival.
Seriously, what a mixture of thoughts and emotions seeming to surface between the words! It is good to have you back!
I loved "See them follow the hung curve
of datura I planted while summer
slept under frozen routine."
What an image for a passionate gardener!
: ) I'll be sure to drop by everyone's "home" today! I'm finally finding time here andt here to read, oh it's so good to be back.
i realize that i don't always comment on your works. it is not because they don't reach me, but more that they reach too deep and rob me of words.
this one forced me to comment, explain myself and marval at the reach of your talent. i think this is the first poem of yours i've read. and its a doozy (that's a good thing!). more?
Touching...
"my face broken red from men
who never arrive"
You say so much with just one line.
"think little of their gypsy way
passing names back and forth"
With this, they have no power over you!
Bravo, Birdie.
I have missed reading you, Birdie. To read you is to know you... and you are worth knowing more than most I know better.
I love this poem. I have no idea what you wrote it about, but I know what it says to me. I have lived on that street as well and, in a very real way, I still do.
Namaste'