There is a forgotten graveyard in your mind
and that’s where I deposited bits
of knotted knowledge;
just there, on the edge,
disguised as impalpable bits
of void -
Just there, when you are gone,
I can see myself,
or rather an old picture of me
that I boldly saved from the fire;
I look like Marlene Dietrich’s portrait
as a Blue Boy -
When you come back, eventually
you ask me about the fire (I laugh, wondering if you really care;
you must be busy walking between graves,
picking stones and bones,
playing with rusting chains,
putting dirt on hand carved letters,
like a boy dragged there on a Sunday afternoon.) and I tell you how it all began -
A lame game:
trying to light a fire with a magnifying glass,
turned into an ocean of blazing waves -
A blame game,
and when you ask why, I can only tell you
that it is the way it is -
Reality both external and internal, Axilea, and the two, rightly, as one, in the end inseparable...and the complexity and indeed regrets of relationships and the search, always the search for truth.
This is exquisite in the telling and conjuring so much intensity within its deft narrative lines. We are left wondering and wanting so much more than this intriguing cameo - yet, too, in itself it is enough, in that it portrays its characters remarkably in the environment you create.
you must be busy walking between graves,
picking stones and bones,
playing with rusting chains,
putting dirt on hand carved letters,
like a boy dragged there on a Sunday afternoon
... this description took my breath away as being so immediate and reminded me muchly of Alice Munro's gift of story-telling. Captivating, thank you! xx
Very picturesque. Lots of truths herein. I love the rhyming, equivalent phrases "lame game" and "blame game", and am caught wandering in the middle of your penultimate stanza, realizing how dangerous magnifying glasses are in relationships. --Charlie
The captivating music of birds and the enchanting beauty of roses have, each in their own right, inspired people around the world for as long as anyone can remember. How the two combine with the challenges faced by a struggling writer in Georgia to c
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John
Namaste,
Christine
you must be busy walking between graves,
picking stones and bones,
playing with rusting chains,
putting dirt on hand carved letters,
like a boy dragged there on a Sunday afternoon
... this description took my breath away as being so immediate and reminded me muchly of Alice Munro's gift of story-telling. Captivating, thank you! xx
fee
Much peace, love and light,
Amber