The first draft of a new, currently untitled, poem. I regret that few higher education trained poets write in this style anymore. I still enjoy it and have been on an old form jag lately. Im still doing my fiction and contemporary poems but this suits the day. [Untitled - work in progress] We meet at the chapel listen to our friends, your family I try my hand at anothers ritual, that awkward dance of ups and downs Restless in the pews of dead-faced people no one knows what expression to wear My countenance is also on hold Yet I am glad, so glad, that I am here Even when my phone interrupts your service a single ring buried deep in my purse and the woman next to me, suddenly angry mutters something scornful The program a paper club in her hand but I see relief in dark eyes She is lifted by fire, out of grief, in a momentary fury Until another phone turns her from me. She searches Three rings elsewhere, somewhere, hidden in the rows and nobody knows who and no body stirs I imagine that you are calling trying to get through but I am unable to answer and I decide that the flames have lifted you to the sun and I feel you shine on me, beyond the chapel Im grateful for this final glow, especially now as it is getting late in the year, and I cannot know with certainty what will happen next It is the edge of autumn and one cannot help but marvel and regret that some of the most beautiful leaves turn and fall too soon
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 23:54:05 +0000
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