Another bowl of cold cereal.
Coffee burnt to the pot.
Monday's shirt on Tuesday, Wednesday
pit-stained and wrinkled.
Buying diapers
for the woman who diapered me.
Diapering
the woman who diapered me.
Sleeping in snatches
of conversations
between medications
and limp, dead weight.
Prying at fear's thick fingered grip
with words, words
I'm good with words,
but I can't.
For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads
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Sunday, June 29, 2014
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About Me
- Maude Lynn
- Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days. ---Flannery O'Connor
13 comments:
It does hurt, doesn't it!! What a perfect word picture, MZ! Can't has become a word already being used more than I ever wanted to.
I so know that "I cant". And yet, somehow, we do. Wishing you strength, my friend, for all you are walking through right now. Look into your daughter's eyes and remember, the cycle is ever growing forward.
And yet the words appear, white on black, even at the darkest hour.. It is what a poet must do, to turn personal suffering into art, so others may know the dull, slow ache they feel is not theirs alone but a legacy.
So it goes.
We end where we begin, and all the while we travel on the wheel, up high flying, then broken underneath it, but it never stops turning, and where one ends another carries on, because they have to. Hang in there.
A beautiful poem, and you seem to have risen to the impossible. I have so much sympathy. I know a bit of how difficult it is going through my father's illness and death. You are a wonderful poet and, it seems from this perspective, wonderful person too. k.
I don't know what to say except, you will make it through this.
and there are times...it is just like that...especially when you are switching roles with parents...oy...def not the easiest time....
This is a tough one, M.Z. I won't be on your poet's end as both my parents and parents-in-law have died. Perhaps one or more of the five will do that for me, I don't know. I hope not.
I like the Monday's shirt bit. It reminded me of the Johnny Cash song, Sunday morning coming down lines, "And found my cleanest dirty shirt."
My favorite lines were in the refrain:
"On a Sunday morning sidewalk
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there ain't nothin' short of dyin'
As half as lonesome as the sound
Of a sleepin' city sidewalk
And Sunday mornings coming down
..
It's tough to diaper the one you diapered - really says it all. Aging so tought
sorrowful ~
Like the ache of a tear that won't come...
Hardest thing is for a poet to find the words too fucking difficult. To go where heart doesn't want anything to do with art.
Hardest thing is for a poet to find the words too fucking difficult. To go where heart doesn't want anything to do with art.
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