A sprinkle of dust flutters to rest
There is no heart beating in that old chest
The photographs sit still, fading to grey
Framing dying people, memories, decay
Seal the coffin beneath
Close the crooked, cracked teeth
Take a hammer to its rotted frame
Until the wooden bones have lost their name
Build a crib from the debris
As done with the original tree
Declutter those ancient drawers
To hold an infant within its stores
This old chest will be born again
emptying the burden of what it had been
And life anew will grow inside
Now that this old broken past has died.
Happy National Poetry Month!!!
It was a haphazard approach to life
not a happy hazard, I reckon,
the way she took deadlines, like a knife
let them press coolly against her neck un-
prepared (but grinning). It was
a startling composure, that same
smile she wore each time, because
it was at once wild and tame.
It admitted that life was a bore,
that we’d constructed a silly game,
that she wouldn’t play now (she hadn’t before),
but it amused her to watch from this frame
of mind (or lack thereof).
Isn’t there something more?
so she smiled, laughed at the stars above
as each one slowly closed his door.
Photography courtesy Acton Wright.
A thin little truth stood up
in the middle of the conservation
to introduce himself and chaos.
I saw his sleek shadow in the pupil of your eye
and sensed there be something more to dread;
harsh is the telling of a lie
harsher is the truth that can’t be unsaid.