02-04-2017, 11:27 AM
Keith's --
I wasn’t sure I would remember the house punctuation here?
an old photograph was all I had,
self seeded plants softened the cracks
but the driveway was still black and white. Like the photograph? I enjoy the suggestion of fragility (time softens the breaks) that makes me think there has been a divide not resolved. (driveway still black and white)
Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
his face gouged like sculptors clay
thin lines under cheek bones
thumbed deep into eye sockets. Gouged and thumbed mirror well.
The meniscus of old age bottled his vision
but he still had a Whiskey gruffness
that reminded me of forgotten songs
and pearl inlays. Amazing. Meniscus, whiskey, gruffness all have grit.
Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he moved around the room to fall fireside,
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk,
stroke is such a gentle word. Really powerful
The room had kept hold of its memory,
veneered in dust and damp that crept out of the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember. These lines detract from ‘stroke is such’
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath bending each exhaled breath—pulling me out of the poem. The staccato of his words shows me more effectively.
to make the sounds.
he told me how much he missed my mother.
“She
was
my
baby
sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell
lifted its head to sniff the air.
“He’s
fuckin
farted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand. Did the dog fart? Either way, I like the ambiguity!
Really moving meditation, thanks for this.
I wasn’t sure I would remember the house punctuation here?
an old photograph was all I had,
self seeded plants softened the cracks
but the driveway was still black and white. Like the photograph? I enjoy the suggestion of fragility (time softens the breaks) that makes me think there has been a divide not resolved. (driveway still black and white)
Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
his face gouged like sculptors clay
thin lines under cheek bones
thumbed deep into eye sockets. Gouged and thumbed mirror well.
The meniscus of old age bottled his vision
but he still had a Whiskey gruffness
that reminded me of forgotten songs
and pearl inlays. Amazing. Meniscus, whiskey, gruffness all have grit.
Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he moved around the room to fall fireside,
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk,
stroke is such a gentle word. Really powerful
The room had kept hold of its memory,
veneered in dust and damp that crept out of the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember. These lines detract from ‘stroke is such’
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath bending each exhaled breath—pulling me out of the poem. The staccato of his words shows me more effectively.
to make the sounds.
he told me how much he missed my mother.
“She
was
my
baby
sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell
lifted its head to sniff the air.
“He’s
fuckin
farted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand. Did the dog fart? Either way, I like the ambiguity!
Really moving meditation, thanks for this.