The Rhythm of No
My father's bones roil in their dirt berm
molto grave. I sense it.
After all those years of preening me
they mewl after music,
but my keys are tiny narrow fields
fallow and faithless over skipped Springs.
He whose ears were all adoration
martyrs me meatless with this straining
his own remains a meal for things
with strange untoward rhythms
ones we endeavored earnestly,
symphonically, not to hear.
Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008
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Ted
superior word choice, excellent phrasing and a motif that sustains the reader; fine writing.
John
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Your "Ovoid" inspired one of me own. :)
Mary
I love the use of mewl. -gene.