My cousin’s picture Hangs in the hallway. Eight feet tall Majestic in every sense. An old man sits in his living room Surrounded by twelve cats The thirteenth lies dead in the kitchen So my cousin explains. She worked at an asylum Painted eight scenes Each about a different patient. Then her world collapsed And she became the patient Gave away all of her paintings Except this one The one I saved. I wish it had been her I saved Keeping her in the light Letting her fingers brush canvas Heal through her art, her genius But she chose a darker path And all I have of her Is an old man with cats.
My own place After the split and going through Divorce after sober living for several months Now, through the front door Refrigerator Bed and stove It is all mine 25 dollar payments per month until it is all paid 2000 dollars A bargain for living space A perfect place for me to live rebuilding my life
There must be a party of same-sized people who arrived wearing Sneakers and sandals and boots and more sneakers. Someone even brought their climbing shoes and Someone left their socks. The shoe party is split, some to the left and some to the right, leaving a trail to negotiate in search of the wearers.
It is a party of two with space in their rooms, but No need to wear shoes in the house.
From the street, the view in is through two windows blocked with cheap miniblinds. Bedroom community anonymity. But the crows know all that has gone before, and what is yet to come.
They knocked on my wooden shield And asked me to step out upon the porch. There were five of them spread apart Each one lighting my lawn by flaming torch.
I did not know what to say, nor to do. Then more people came down the street, Marching in a parade this silent spring night. All I could hear was the tramping of their feet.
To a halt they came in front of my house And turned all at once to face me, me all alone. Someone counted four and they began to sing A serenade to me, widower of an empty home.
They sang a song of lifelong love taken. They sang of shattered hearts and sorrow. They sang of neighbors loving neighbors. And they sang of hope waiting for tomorrow.
They finished and I somehow waved my thanks, Then turned to make my way back inside. What strange twist was this? It makes no sense. My love taken by the reason I now go to hide.
I stopped in the doorway and wept for my wife, Afraid now of my refuge, my lonely prison cell. Looking down, I saw a bag of groceries there And on top, a simple note to me, “Stay well.”
A View Inside
ReplyDeleteMy cousin’s picture
Hangs in the hallway.
Eight feet tall
Majestic in every sense.
An old man sits in his living room
Surrounded by twelve cats
The thirteenth lies dead in the kitchen
So my cousin explains.
She worked at an asylum
Painted eight scenes
Each about a different patient.
Then her world collapsed
And she became the patient
Gave away all of her paintings
Except this one
The one I saved.
I wish it had been her I saved
Keeping her in the light
Letting her fingers brush canvas
Heal through her art, her genius
But she chose a darker path
And all I have of her
Is an old man with cats.
Rick Stepp-Bolling
My own place
ReplyDeleteAfter the split
and going through
Divorce
after sober living
for several months
Now, through the front door
Refrigerator
Bed and stove
It is all mine
25 dollar payments
per month
until it is all paid
2000 dollars
A bargain for living space
A perfect place
for me to live
rebuilding my life
“Crazy Things Happen Here”
ReplyDeleteThere must be a party of same-sized people who arrived wearing
Sneakers and sandals and boots and more sneakers.
Someone even brought their climbing shoes and
Someone left their socks.
The shoe party is split, some to the left and some to the right, leaving a trail to negotiate in search of the wearers.
It is a party of two with space in their rooms, but
No need to wear shoes in the house.
inside out
ReplyDeletereflect the shadow
of the mind
From the street, the view in is through two windows blocked with cheap miniblinds. Bedroom community anonymity.
ReplyDeleteBut the crows know all that has gone before, and what is yet to come.
SILENT SPRING
ReplyDeleteBy Steve Clark
They knocked on my wooden shield
And asked me to step out upon the porch.
There were five of them spread apart
Each one lighting my lawn by flaming torch.
I did not know what to say, nor to do.
Then more people came down the street,
Marching in a parade this silent spring night.
All I could hear was the tramping of their feet.
To a halt they came in front of my house
And turned all at once to face me, me all alone.
Someone counted four and they began to sing
A serenade to me, widower of an empty home.
They sang a song of lifelong love taken.
They sang of shattered hearts and sorrow.
They sang of neighbors loving neighbors.
And they sang of hope waiting for tomorrow.
They finished and I somehow waved my thanks,
Then turned to make my way back inside.
What strange twist was this? It makes no sense.
My love taken by the reason I now go to hide.
I stopped in the doorway and wept for my wife,
Afraid now of my refuge, my lonely prison cell.
Looking down, I saw a bag of groceries there
And on top, a simple note to me, “Stay well.”