Walls came tumbling down
in my attempt to embrace the hope
found in love, out-loud and up-front;
but, a part of me knew better,
having never hauled away the bricks,
pocketing the lock and key,
in the event of security forsaken.
Where there should have been mirrors,
reflections of a heart on heart same,
I was left with open spaces, our world
a window through which passers-by
saw things they didn't want to see,
readying rocks in careful aim
at the house we built of glass.
Belly-crawling now, I gather stone,
mixing mortar in sand-grit tears,
unpocketing the lock and key,
raising walls to surround-sound
my broken heart, wishing to heal,
no peephole or window revealing
the shape of things that never came.
painting: Otto Dix-A Memory of the Glass House in Brussels ... oil and glass on silver and canvas.
As a self-professed (albeit usually silent) Queen of tall walls, I recognize myself here. Sometimes, it's tough to look at yourself, n'est ce pas? I enjoy your expression, Anne. It comes across loud and (ouch) crystal clear. Thank you.
Reviewed by Dan Zuewski (Reader)
Reviewed on August 19, 2004
I like the "walls tumbling down - walls going up" theme in here... there was more I wanted to say but I forget after trying to post this comment about 4 times only to have the page be not responding. Sorry! :)
So many houses built of glass,but we must heal and look around for stone and mortar for the things that never came may still come. Excellent as always. My new writing she ro.
Reviewed by D May (Reader)
Reviewed on August 13, 2004
Anne, I never pass up the chance to read you and I am never disappointed. I love your style.
Reviewed by Jane Rodway (Reader)
Reviewed on August 12, 2004
Perfection is a wonderful thing, and I can usually find it on AD if I read your work :) Be well~
Belly-crawling now, I gather stone,
mixing mortar in sand-grit tears,
unpocketing the lock and key,
raising walls, in surround-sound,
of my broken heart, wishing to heal,
no peephole or window revealing
the shape of things that never came.
In a post-coup America, an Illinois farm boy is drawn into the resistance by his brother's death. Captured, he is given a choice: betray his friends, or the girl he loves will be lobotomized.
In a post-coup America, an Illinois farm boy is drawn into the resistance by his brother's death. Captured, he is given a choice: betray his friends, or the girl he loves will be lobotomized.
Deputy Dave Jenkins investigates the murder of local high school principal, Jerry Egge, but this is a multi-faceted novel that deals with spiritualism, romance, friendship, and children who fall through the cracks.
"Murder isn't usually this
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Reindeer
mixing mortar in sand-grit tears,
unpocketing the lock and key,
raising walls, in surround-sound,
of my broken heart, wishing to heal,
no peephole or window revealing
the shape of things that never came.
Absolutely beautiful!