Monday,
Slowly getting back to the writing and posting of my poetry. Still need to write more, think more, experience the poet's life more. But I am getting there. This poem is new and uses a more "formal" form than most of the stuff I write.
with the likely possibility of raging floods.
Afraid I wasn't listening.
inside my wicker skull that fall
in steady drips and drops—
falling, yes, most times they fall
like snow, crawl like snails,
or crash like hail against my ears
drowning out those puny sounds
I often make when no one’s near
enough to hear
the rusty creaking of my voice.
Why yes, of course, I sometimes mutter
to myself, divide myself up into
several little things that look just like me,
other weary little things
that no longer care or fear
what the mirror might reflect.
Is it true that memory’s a ghost
which only haunts late at night
when the rain comes calling?
rrw 11-o6-14
Slowly getting back to the writing and posting of my poetry. Still need to write more, think more, experience the poet's life more. But I am getting there. This poem is new and uses a more "formal" form than most of the stuff I write.
When the Floods Come
The weather channel grumbled something
about a thick rain tonight, maybe tomorrow,The weather channel grumbled something
with the likely possibility of raging floods.
Afraid I wasn't listening.
Too busy these days mastering
all the weather beaten thoughts inside my wicker skull that fall
in steady drips and drops—
falling, yes, most times they fall
like snow, crawl like snails,
or crash like hail against my ears
drowning out those puny sounds
I often make when no one’s near
enough to hear
the rusty creaking of my voice.
Why yes, of course, I sometimes mutter
to myself, divide myself up into
several little things that look just like me,
other weary little things
that no longer care or fear
what the mirror might reflect.
Is it true that memory’s a ghost
which only haunts late at night
when the rain comes calling?
rrw 11-o6-14
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