Wednesday, March 24, 2010

waves


-
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

9 comments:

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

    much love
    gillena

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  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.

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  3. I like those wheel-worn hands

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  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?

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

    The Testimony

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

    As Chris said, the language is beautiful.

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

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

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  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?"

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