Poetry Everyday of the Year (and more)

The rules are simple. 1) Send me a poem and if I approve it (most likely) I will print it. I will also print my poems (which are copyrighted.) 2) If I print your poem you will retain all rights to the poem. I will also delete your poem if you sell it to a publisher who wants exclusive rights. 3) If I print your poem, I will send you an email telling you what day. (So you can tell everyone). This is a poet friendly site. (enjoy)

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The Trouble With Digging In Someone Else'sDirt

Ostensibly, we were there to dig
To make a hole big enough
Deep enough so that what
We were about to bury
Would never bother us again

Even in the first shovelfuls
Tiny ones really, barely braking
The surface sod – I knew
She would not be satisfied
For there is no depth that can
Cover a ghost, a memory,
Or that mysterious something else
Which shall, if she has her way,
Go nameless, unspoken of, and
Yet not completely forgotten.

My mother was the same way,
That is in her approach to things
That scared her – nothing was said
No mind was paid to it, despite
Its ghostly fingers touching everything
Pleading for release, Let me go, please
Please, please – let me go
They were, of course,  things of a highly scary nature,
The things that touch the Heart
Things that had one mission in life
To touch the heart – Now they are piled up
Like junk in a hoarder’s  garage
Some have been abandoned so long
They have lost their form – no longer those words said in anger or frustration or loss
They are now: hurt, sadness, and bad.
Chained to the door that blocks the heart.

The hole is now nearly five feet deep
Five feet long and four feet wide
Doris frets that it is not enough
I sense that I am in over my head.
©Frank Coughlin April 2011

No comments:

Post a Comment