Friday, September 13, 2013

Baby With the Bathwater

What happens when the sky shines only black
and clothing feels like the wearing of a leaden robe

When the call for help goes to voicemail
and that unspoken name and number are rote

Where every step forward freezes into concrete
and the past and present see no future

How favorite foods are cooked and grow mold
like days that pass one by one by one

This is how it feels, how it wears down,
how life transcends to tears that pool in caves.

And so it hides in the hands of a clock that ticks
waiting for its movement to cease from rust

Or it can’t wait, so beats the inner drum,
so scarred, scared and sacred is time

The pen is picked up to write on paper burning
with words shared for someone else to feel the pain


  1. Wonderful wonderful words my Orange friend.

    I have a few very private poems (words on burning paper) tucked away...and it does help...maybe I shall share them one day.

    Anna :o]

  2. Thank you Anna for assisting me with a needed edit on a word in the poem…together we make words shine brighter.

  3. A pleasure my Orange friend.

    Just returned here to take a second look - which became a third and fourth and fifth.

    So much depth I missed on first viewing that I am full with it. Again: wonderful wonderful words.

    Anna :o]

  4. Soooooo ... you do have a blog! This made me feel. That is important in a poem. Nice to meet you!