Friday, May 22, 2015

Incineration of Summers Past


Five summers ago
I won you,
A kind of brittle love
Embryonic as a
Winning raffle ticket.
I pushed your ideas
Between pages of poetry,
All those unread books
That lined the walls
Of my livingroom.
Too many books,
You’d always say.
The same summer
I gathered the words
Of your throw-away stories,
The poems you shunned
Like an angry Whitman,
As if Whitman could
Ever be angered.
Still, I stuffed them
Inside my own mouth,
So that when I spoke
Only you would come out.
We’d spend whole days
Writing inside leather-bound
Journals, sometimes you
Falling asleep while I sneaked
A look at the things
You had to say about me.
And at night we’d drive
Miles outside the city,
Our long conversations spoken
To the harmony of
Cicadas and country frogs.
We’d eat barbecue wings
On the back porch,
Old as the oldest couple
At heart, while slathering ribs,
Negating modern-day philosophy.
We’d hold hands, an
Affectionate thing we did
Without emotional dependency,
And listen to the radio,
Voice of the newsman
Foreshadowing the rain
We would await, although
Sometimes it never came.
I rarely remember those days now,
Precocious children blocked
Inside an old dated calendar
No one keeps time to anymore.
The walls of my bedroom
Now absent your half-completed
Pages of poetry, the wildlife murals,
Shelves-full of Rumi and
The old college-dorm expressionist
Art you found in the
Parking lot dumpster that day.
Friday night has succumbed
To a dreary corner chair,
The lonesome melody of
My steady laptop keys,
A muse whose grip is
Greater than any greed.
Each summer since then
Has been a cerulean,
Teary-eyed homecoming,
A loft-full of whispering eaves,
Each afternoon a recession
Of the one before, time-lapse
Of history paused on repeat,
Days full of sun folded between
Perfectly-woven croissants,
My rare, home-made delicacy,
And dandelions in a clay tea-pot,
Pouring petals, their wings 
full of my wishes as
they swim toward the sky.
Steady, weightless things.

Written for a prompt at Pink.Girl.Ink.
Shared with Open Link Night at dVerse Poetry.

17 comments:

  1. I love this! You definitely channel Anne well.

    In one spot, you seem to have typed "parking lost" instead of "parking lot."

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. aw thank you so much, darlin.

      thank you also for pointing that out. typos drive me crazzyyy! :)

      Delete
  2. This is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant:
    "Friday night has succumbed
    To a dreary corner chair,
    The lonesome melody of
    My steady laptop keys,"

    ReplyDelete
  3. Those passions sure change over the years - you took me throgh those 5 years with your muse in an excellent way. Transforming from passion to puppet-master.. Hmm at least that's what a I read. Truly brilliant.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Yes.. the child of creativity comes and goes in the
    best of artistic eyes.. but growing with elements
    of innate instinctual and intuitive creation activity..
    creativity can stay alive..:)

    ReplyDelete
  5. your streams of consciousness are always brimmed with imagery and emotion, yet never maudlin or trite ~

    ReplyDelete
  6. A brittle, emotional poem that quivers and shimmers and threatens to break apart in your hands... very evocative.

    ReplyDelete
  7. I liked the time progression..talking about what was then compared to what is now. Relationships come, evolve, and often go. A relationship with self and the grip of the muse stays..

    ReplyDelete
  8. This is beautifully put, wistful, delicate, wonderful.

    ReplyDelete
  9. You have written another very fine poem. I liked how you balanced past and present as well as the wistful tone of your words.

    ReplyDelete
  10. This is brilliant and touching. A progression that keeps the eyes longing for more. I esp., love this part:
    "I rarely remember those days now,
    Precocious children blocked
    Inside an old dated calendar
    No one keeps time to anymore." Just wonderful.

    ReplyDelete
  11. You have created more than one lovable images thoughout your piece and I enjoyed seeing them from your view. Very nicely penned.

    ReplyDelete
  12. "Still, I stuffed them
    Inside my own mouth,
    So that when I spoke
    Only you would come out.".....love the nostalgic lines full of longing...a beautiful and brilliant write as always Stacy :)

    ReplyDelete
  13. Wonderful words Stacy.

    When I first clicked on here and saw the length of your words - I thought 'Oh no!' and my first thought was to click off. But I am glad I didn't - but would suggest you break up your words to natural thought.

    The kindest of regards
    Anna :o]

    ReplyDelete
  14. I absolutely love this. Especially:
    "A kind of brittle love
    Embryonic as a
    Winning raffle ticket."

    ReplyDelete
  15. I held my breath the entire time I read this. So many objects, places and words drenched with emotion.

    ReplyDelete
  16. I loved these lines near the end: "Each afternoon a recession/Of the one before, time-lapse/Of history paused on repeat," but all of this is wonderfully rendered. Wow!

    ReplyDelete

Thank you for taking the time to comment, it is so appreciated. Your thoughts and critiques are always welcome! I will be by to visit your blog soon!