The haggard bent on her aged staff
Wobbling and tumbling
Along the withered ballast
Two black long rods ironed leading
To her village dear lost long ago.
Hunger for her home of wombed breaths
Praying the jealous daylight not to set
The search continues in feverish light
Destination slow on uncarpeted roads
The country so bedraggled her eyes squinted.
Her birds do fly home soon tonight
Quilts to be aired to warm them tight
Time to burn the stove, broth to be cooked
But where is her hearth she cries in anguish
Her soul's obsession grew with ever hungry eyes
My hearth, my children! My hearth, my children!
FIRST
Balveen Cheema
August 20, 2015
Contest: Waiting
Categories:
uncarpeted, children, death, imagery, journey,
Form: Narrative
work
the genes are stitching
it is the gravity of the past
the weight of planets descending
invisible uncarpeted
stairs
it is the man on land
in asking why the drowning man
grasps at straws
the master looks on, very perturbed,
distracted, as if
thinking of something else
very busy
distracted by all the great effort, all the good things,
he has wrought , in spite of
everyone else
with their skinners in the bossman's
pocket
Categories:
uncarpeted, appreciation, baby, beauty, black
Form: Free verse
To write no more, shall be hard to do.
to push never again my crocked pen
across the page which once was new
now so stained from pain within.
No more I write to an ascending voice
to hear their laughter from the back.
Knowing full well this be my choice
to write no more for skill I lack.
There shall be no loss to none but me
to find my thoughts uncarpeted then
to let my poets heart blow free
my scatter verse unto the wind.
I write no more I've had enough
to feel their sneer at my printed word
their descending mock for that I love
I drop bitter tears upon my verse.
From my heart so torn and I forlorn
so this shall stand as my final poem.
Categories:
uncarpeted, confusion, on writing and
Form: Quatrain