smarwar
05-22-2010, 03:20 AM
(This is sort of a sequel to a poem I wrote some years ago, It's Cold Up Here in Saskatchewan but I think it's more prose poetry, or maybe just prose. I don't know but have been wanting to write it for awhile. Now that I have decent internet service it makes it so much easier! I think I will be writing a lot more once again.)
HEAT
She thought it was cold in Saskatchewan.
Her long-time home's ownership stretched back
generations; she was proud of the heritage
but oh so cold and lonely,
so frigid her bones ached from August through May.
Three seasons squeezed into two months, the other eight
progressing from cold, colder, coldest, then reverse
as Winter had its way. Her personal birds
had flown the log-fired environment of their childhood,
along with nature's migrators. They didn't return
like them, though, preferring the sunny, golden coasts
of the South -- Trinidad, Belize, Barbados and Antigua.
She sold the place to investors, packed up her few possessions
and headed south, imagining future warmth and family
around once more. There would be days of languishing on the beach,
as the cool, never ending Caribbean breezes blew, her joints would
be at last at ease in the perpetual warmth, family, friends would abound,
cheered by the bright colors and light of her accoutrements. She even
splurged on a set of dishes, bright, originals with each cup a different
design. She never used the same one two days in a row.
Settled at last in her comfortable house with a pink roof and trim,
she issued a general invitation. Come to visit anytime. I love you
and have missed you so.
Month after month went by, one by one pages torn from the calendar,
pages on which were scribbled notes like Charley thinks he can bring his family
this July,
Elizabeth and her partner expected in August.
The month of December was completely taken up with Christmas visitors.
Oh what a time they would have. When the week arrived,
phone call, can't make it,
big business appointment, short of money, miss you Mom, maybe next year.
One year ran into another.
It's hot down here in Aruba, lonely too; sighing she fixed herself a cold
tea spiked with flavored vodka, sat on the porch and smiled at the
bird of paradise nodding its approval. Maybe try the Caymans
or take a trip to London, she mused as she sipped her drink.
© Sharon Warden May 2010
HEAT
She thought it was cold in Saskatchewan.
Her long-time home's ownership stretched back
generations; she was proud of the heritage
but oh so cold and lonely,
so frigid her bones ached from August through May.
Three seasons squeezed into two months, the other eight
progressing from cold, colder, coldest, then reverse
as Winter had its way. Her personal birds
had flown the log-fired environment of their childhood,
along with nature's migrators. They didn't return
like them, though, preferring the sunny, golden coasts
of the South -- Trinidad, Belize, Barbados and Antigua.
She sold the place to investors, packed up her few possessions
and headed south, imagining future warmth and family
around once more. There would be days of languishing on the beach,
as the cool, never ending Caribbean breezes blew, her joints would
be at last at ease in the perpetual warmth, family, friends would abound,
cheered by the bright colors and light of her accoutrements. She even
splurged on a set of dishes, bright, originals with each cup a different
design. She never used the same one two days in a row.
Settled at last in her comfortable house with a pink roof and trim,
she issued a general invitation. Come to visit anytime. I love you
and have missed you so.
Month after month went by, one by one pages torn from the calendar,
pages on which were scribbled notes like Charley thinks he can bring his family
this July,
Elizabeth and her partner expected in August.
The month of December was completely taken up with Christmas visitors.
Oh what a time they would have. When the week arrived,
phone call, can't make it,
big business appointment, short of money, miss you Mom, maybe next year.
One year ran into another.
It's hot down here in Aruba, lonely too; sighing she fixed herself a cold
tea spiked with flavored vodka, sat on the porch and smiled at the
bird of paradise nodding its approval. Maybe try the Caymans
or take a trip to London, she mused as she sipped her drink.
© Sharon Warden May 2010
