Escape

observations on the sadness of age

When the silence is as taut as a violin string

the rest awaits as you climb past the invitation

of an open window, your day in shopping bags

that redden the joints of your hands, as if you

wait helpless at a busy junction, the heavy trucks that

throw warmth and grit in your face, 

this is graceless, like worn slippers under a hospital bed

or an unread letter full of secrets, next to a glass full

of whiteness, rooms full of old cameras and shavers,

as if everything could be restarted, not just this

ring of concerned faces and mumbles at doorways,

You cannot leave as an angel, you are full of broken glass.

Reviews

[h d e rushin]

Your poetry just knocks me out.....good stuff. dana

[Emily B]

i look at my hands and i wonder where they came from, they are not the hands i remember

[Shimmerbliss/CAF]

This brings back so much feeling that I had when watching my mother in her last few months. It was always as if we were waiting as you say, at a junction, or passing the open window you speak of. You did a lovely job again.

[Distant horizons]

Your words paint a vivid and thought provoking picture.

[Wondering Mind]

stunning, haunting imagery.