plain are the lips that catch the tears
that run from her eyes for her tongue to savor.
she tucks her boys in after all these years,
southern oak leaves now their delicate covers.
the evening before they read Berry aloud
in a swing on the porch till the dusklight subdued,
but tonight they lie shiv'ring in their cradle of ground,
any feeling of hope she solemnly eschews.
so much so that she joins them in the dust and the earth
and crawls under her blanket of southern oak leaves,
she's closing her eyes on the faces she birthed-
the keen sword of grief, quietly sheathed.
overload
2 years ago
1 comment:
Ben, I love your poetry so much.... I cannot describe my love for your poetry. I have recently been very inspired by all of it... most of them are ones your wrote in 2006 or 2007. This one is of my favorites of yours. It's so warm and beautiful. It makes me think of slow Knoxville days, sitting on your front porch and smelling honey suckle... breathing in the goodness that is Knoxville. Okay!! I just wrote poetry. Why can't I do this when I'm ACTUALLY trying to write poetry.
I've been trying to write some pretty poetry. I have really vivid images in my head of Pickwick and Max Patch and Freshman year of college in the courtyard, but I keep getting caught up on trying to flow it all down smoothly and let it be natural. Dumb. You should write more. Ethan and I used to critique each other's poetry on the front porch of Oklahoma. Maybe if you started writing more... you and I could help each other out. Sort of poetry accountability.
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