02-17-2015, 07:32 AM
Sonnet for Alan
The halo round the half-moon splinters ice,
a gelid gleam that glints on sea-borne spume.
The howl of stray cat fight cuts through the night
as if the sea is screaming at the moon.
.
The skeletons of driftwood twist and writhe
in shadow dance, though they themselves are still
and all my dead tonight return to life
as morepork’s warning call flies from the hill.
The crumpled sheets of night festoon the floor,
they’re stained with pain and dreams of lovers lost
and suicide’s allure slides through the door
with guilt and freedom arguing the cost.
The darkest part of night is yet to come
in wakeful struggle, waiting for the sun.
It hurts her to remember
My mother’s time rounds out now; near complete,
it twists her bones and memory until
she’s caught in helpless infantile defeat,
replays blocked scenes – poor farmhouse on the hill,
her father’s suicide, his shattered will,
her family fragmented, scattered wide.
She never spoke his name, yet loved him still
then lost as well her homeland, as war bride
so wife and mother kept him locked inside
with guilt she hadn’t loved him quite enough.
Now she herself is nearing that divide
a child again - a kiss, his whiskers rough;
she moans. I bend with tissues for her eyes
to hear her whisper daddy as she cries.
The halo round the half-moon splinters ice,
a gelid gleam that glints on sea-borne spume.
The howl of stray cat fight cuts through the night
as if the sea is screaming at the moon.
.
The skeletons of driftwood twist and writhe
in shadow dance, though they themselves are still
and all my dead tonight return to life
as morepork’s warning call flies from the hill.
The crumpled sheets of night festoon the floor,
they’re stained with pain and dreams of lovers lost
and suicide’s allure slides through the door
with guilt and freedom arguing the cost.
The darkest part of night is yet to come
in wakeful struggle, waiting for the sun.
It hurts her to remember
My mother’s time rounds out now; near complete,
it twists her bones and memory until
she’s caught in helpless infantile defeat,
replays blocked scenes – poor farmhouse on the hill,
her father’s suicide, his shattered will,
her family fragmented, scattered wide.
She never spoke his name, yet loved him still
then lost as well her homeland, as war bride
so wife and mother kept him locked inside
with guilt she hadn’t loved him quite enough.
Now she herself is nearing that divide
a child again - a kiss, his whiskers rough;
she moans. I bend with tissues for her eyes
to hear her whisper daddy as she cries.