Wednesday, March 24, 2010


She sits awhile in shadow
staring at the unlit window,

and turns the music up
from the driveway in her coupe.

She rubs her hands, cold and gnawed,
wheel-worn where too tightly held,

like reeling in an empty line,
or rolling over one more time,

chewing on some week-old bread,
or kneeding down a hardened bed.

But oh,
still it comes,

in and out on waves,
like hot showers on winter days,

or like a cold, chocolate shake
into a searing belly ache,

like caresses through long hair
on a trapeze in ocean air.
All rights reserved.
photo by Jillian Standish


  1. The photo is stunning; your words flow free and refreshingly so

    much love

  2. Memory of days gone by seem easier to reach out to now that I am old enough to not fear the lull between the waves.

  3. I like those wheel-worn hands

  4. I loved the language in this, the music of it. I'll have to read it a few more times to catch what I've missed. Are they memories that come in waves, as WM said?

  5. I hear music when I read this piece. Fantastic!

    The Testimony

  6. This poem is perfect in setup and finale. I, too, am left wondering - the "they" - memories?

    As Chris said, the language is beautiful.

  7. Yes, happy memories, and yes, someday I may write a song, who knows?
    Thanks you guys!

  8. Hey there, I gave an award on my blog, come and check it out!

  9. Hey, thanks for the nomination! Creative Blogger Award, that's a compliment. I have one question for your 14 answers, "What do you do or where do you find the place and the time to write your best stuff?"