This poem itches me with the grit of mint leaves to the tooth a prickle like the tag of my collar rubbing, rubbing a fundus twitch finger bud of fetus half bite, half saffron thread tickle
a sky's bemused shout from a forgotten open door somewhere behind me and coiled above a ceaseless boom only I can hear
Within, I wait for a time more congenial As I wait for the myrtles, their magenta lava seething captive still in trunks twisted like horn
I wait, my seventh pass round these duties almost done, nearly done though my hand wonders dumb heavy with its chore as a tiny insect prisoner in the amber of my ring writhes comes to life trembles.
I'm curious . . . what was it you were cooking here?
You Patiliyah, as always, astound me with your insights and your ability to enchant amd mesmerize. Turning the mundane into art, and suffering into light flowing eastward in washes of inspiration.
Thank you for introducing me to the word 'Fundus' whatever it is lol. It does not detract from this excellent piece love the use of assonance and your style.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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You Patiliyah, as always, astound me with your insights and your ability to enchant amd mesmerize. Turning the mundane into art, and suffering into light flowing eastward in washes of inspiration.
Keep Writing
Respectfully
Richard
Paul;-)