poetry

yellow grass

A feeble redemption of Dickinson.

I don’t hold
  My breath anymore,
Don’t check the door for death.
My stoop is sore, my hope is cold;
      Only so much warmth one can gather
From an ember-hearth less-glowing old.
    It’s a reach to remember
All the heart-bold gambles
  Or late-night, smoky-eyed rambles;
But I’ve not, just yet,
The squat-rights sold.
      While in shoddy shambles,
And ‘neath a droop-pitch of holes,
    The house still-strongly stands
‘Spite the rock of rigamaroles.
  Tenancy here is plenty-hard
And on no map markedly starred,
But my residence is written evidence
      On a postcard of peonies in the box.
Come to me, yet less to me
    Than to the ‘marish socks
It knocks off my trepidatious feet.
  Damn dusky Dickinson,
Though, wholeheartedly, I love her stuff;
She hurt enough for all of us.
      She spanks me for self-pity even now,
Her out-of-tune ditty
    The sacred cow of delineated disaster,
Not at all the playsome lark.
  Even so-accustomed to the dark,
I sober a somber smile
For the briar-scrimmaged mile
      Duty-traipsed by the postmaster
To bring me an image of beauty wild
    That’s not only possible,
But as probable as rain on yellow grass—
  Past-happy to see it, no doubt;
I just needed my head completely out
Of my quite unbeautiful ass.


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    Poetry: Shapes In The Clouds
        https://windstrewn.com/2018/10/05/shapes-in-the-clouds/


4 comments on “yellow grass

  1. Love the last two lines!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Clever, witty, and courageous!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Grateful for your visit, Sarah!

      My tongue is in my cheek most mornings I’m combing my hair in the mirror. I’m not covered in warts, am in decent shape and feeling old in my forties, when I do, is more an emotional condition than a physical reality! But, as a decidedly single (and stressed out!) dad to three totally worth-it daughters, it’s often too easy to get blinded by or bogged down in the mundane. I suspect we all miss way too much pretty while overthinking our immediate states of very human disrepair.

      Liked by 1 person

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