Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.12.146.87

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

A flannel-washed-out school.
Unsullied nuns in a sullen line.

Again hearing the quacking of ducks
as new brown leathers shoes
stepped and skipped,
though skipping was a serious offense
behind the school fence.

London, eons ago,
a blighted borough 
lost in the scant gravy
of rationed times.

Was I six, was I even aware 
of my eyes? What they took in
or let out?
How to recall
what I was, or who all others were.
Ad hoc groupings of tabula rasa
jostling to be known
unto themselves.

We were collated, tagged, and fed,
led to cold block toilets
guarded by black and white sentinels
as we scrubbed ink off fingers
with bricks of green carbolic. 
Rosery beads clicked impatiently
outside as a bride of Christ listened in.
Then were returned to the inky wells
to spill once more.

Blank slates were our minds.
I do not think anyone wrote on mine
or I on other slates.

When we stepped out of line
we were chastised by 
a thin whip-lashing cane,
it was the way of our Lord
we were told.
Whimpers and snotty noses
from ill-nourished late developers.

We were an almost,

happy to be
that unquestioning flannel grey,
all quacking in a row
and waiting for the light.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required