My encasement has shattered.
The ice shower sprinkle
doesn’t register at first,
merely tickling my eardrums with fairy sparkle.
But then millions of shards dagger the ground
exploding, pounding the back of my eyeballs
as the pressure wave roils and rolls towards me –
My protective, self-mandated tomb is shattered
and my soul bleeds, splattering the earth
as fat raindrops in the tail-end of a summer storm.
I have been breached.
A deceptively tough write this week on dVerse Poetics, hosted by Walt… what does love sound like? It can be any kind of love, but the sound? Wow! I’m in reflective mood (so often the case!), and am thinking about my dad, as time continues to pass and I see him in a different light.
This is a little informed by the tidal wave of feelings that washed over me during his short illness and funeral, and the immediate aftermath. I can write differently now. I can confess to the depths of my feelings, without bitterness. It’s a release.
Please do head on over to dVerse to read other entries – there is bound to be a cacophony!
Do not reach inside me.
Do not plunder the spoils of our internecine warfare.
Do not do that.
We have bludgeoned until naught is left
save blood and an ocean of our tears,
– the only remnants of (what used to be) us that mingle now.
We pace in silent circles, keeping each in the other’s line of sight.
We have learned well.
No, do not reach inside of me.
Not any more.
For there is nothing left.
Tonight is the third night of the dVerse 5th anniversary celebrations, and we are treated to an interview with Laurie Kolp, who used to be a host back in the day. Today, we are hosted by Walt, a fine poet and a great host.
We are invited to write a poem in response to the following quote:
I am cold, even though the heat of early summer is adequate. I am cold because I cannot find my heart.
Sebastian Barry from A long long way
I hope you enjoy my offering, and of course, the offerings of the vibrant, talented dVerse community. If you are new to dVerse, do, do, do take part. The drinks in the pub are cold and long, the seats are comfy and the chat is inspirational. Come one, come all!
She is a cracked plastic spoon,
brittle, cheap, temporary
in our use it, bin it world.
Not worth a second thought –
that’s what he thinks, anyway.
He is a brutal jackhammer
pounding everything in his path
scything his way through
without a second thought.
They are a match made in hell.
Sadly, this poem was inspired by a couple I observed whilst out and about in town today. They played on my mind and followed me home, in my head at least. I feel a little better for ‘writing it out’, but I do wonder what will become of them.