Interpoetry


The Canvas

Blue daisies dot the wall in meadow-painted paper
The still life rots within its frame, no restorations save her
A bodice tightly strung, her eyes were bright and blue
But a hundred years of staring have changed their hue

Cobwebs drape her pale drawn face, extensions in her hair
And yellow stains accent her smile, just barely showing there
Bird droppings veil her shoulders in subtle grays and whites
Her countenance is grim - she blends into the night

She lived five quarter centuries ago, in days we now forget
She sang, she walked, she cried and talked, no memories beset
Her lovers moulder in their graves, her children dead and gone
She adhers within the portrait, fading more each dawn

Some essence of her lingers in the oils and canvas yet
The paint beneath her eyes appears suspicious, wet
The essence of her memory is trapped within the paint
Inhale her weary fragrance, forced to ever haunt

Canvas is an artifact, a simpering pretty thing
But if you listen closely you will hear her mournful sing
Her babies from their graven repose sniffle for her presence
But she is trapped within a frame, buried not - her essence

How hard would it be, do you suppose, to free her?
If this be true, how would it be to be her?
The fireflies circle the stone exterior and unite in light
Her canvas tomb is unaffected although they burn quite bright

Nature reclaims itself from the bruises of mankind
Unattended, tendrils creep and squeeze the fragile mind
She stood tall and self-assured, a prize for all to see
But she has hung herself for all eternity



She Will Have to Wait

The pillow on the wheelchair was blue with rips and tears
She breathed in ragged spasms and fell into the chair
Most days were without incident, the TV was her friend
Each day was so predictable from start to end

Barb sipped her sugared sodas and read the paper through
She ate all day and managed to wash a dish or two
Her eyes were bad; she couldn't see the dirt ground in the carpet
Ralph would call on Saturdays and they would shoot the shit 

Her cat was named Mr. Paws; he was old and lazy
Kids in the neighborhood thought she was crazy
She screamed from the window when the noise got loud
They ran like horses or a fair-going crowd

Her house dress smelled of urine and her hair was sparse and gray
She never took a bath; she didn't have a way
She shared the can of whiskas with Mr. Paws and sighed
A can of tuna or plain old spam would be a real delight

Her check is small and never buys enough to last the month
The bills keep coming, just a few; the property taxes went up
She holds a photograph of a man who used to make her laugh
But he is dead now fifteen years and he isn't coming back

She takes an hour to get the mail, holding onto walls
Cannot run to get the phone; she is afraid to fall
Her son lives in Chicago; she lives in Tennessee
She treasures little pictures of grandchildren never seen

She struggles out of the tattered wheelchair, feeling somewhat sad,
She drinks some water, pets the cat and suddenly drops dead
Mr. Paws nuzzles her cold and purple face
And Ralph won't call again ‘til Saturday...... she will have to wait.




The Rusted Blade in Bloodied Silver

The rusted blade in bloodied silver lays amidst the stones
The gray haired woman stoops to touch it; she is all alone
Time stops and angry reverence reveal its truthful face
Battle worn and serious, she reads its fall from grace

Her fingers stroke the metal phallus and weary sobs escape
She uncovers his torn body - He lays in pallid state
Staring without seeing, the final Truth is known.
What horrors did he see? Did he die all alone?

Kneeling at the river bank she dipped the ancient sword
and washed it clean and wrapped it in a cloth then bound with cord
She damned the earth on which he had lain  and drew a circlet round
in ashes and in excrement upon the heartless ground.

With ropes she tied around his chest she dragged him to a cave
Along the silvered shore she wept and worked and raged
Pausing once she stared to see the sun fall from the sky
And anger swelled within her breast knowing that he died.

She stacked up rocks to wall him in, the handmade tomb arranged
Striking flint upon the stones, the fires of hell engaged.
She reflected on her souvenir, the rusted silver sword
and swore she would revenge him. With that her spirit buoyed.

She watched the rocks, the fire, the sword throughout that moonless night
And forged an anger's consequence in bright hot glowing white
The day dawned hot and airless, the clouds brought early rain
She steeled herself to win or die - ignored the taste of pain.