Thursday, April 09, 2009


Again, I wrote this quickly between classes. I had no idea what to write, so I just went to the Poetic Asides site, clicked on comments, and composed right there. I made very few adjustments. It is what it is.


Sometimes I wish my memory
started at eighteen
when I married.
That's when the
good times started
to roll,
not before
when I felt extraneous and
just tried to stay out of
everyone's way.
As a rule, I
don't like thinking about childhood.

Except there was one time.
was dying.
My brother told me so on
the way home from school.
I held it in until
I walked through the front
door. My mother was sitting
in a chair, facing the door
as if waiting for me to walk through.
When I saw her I
burst out crying.
She touched
my hair and called me baby.

1 comment:

Daily Writing Habit said...

I love this PAD! Isn't it amazing how we can create with just a little time when there's a positive confluence of rivers, weather, and tides?

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Northwest Ohio, United States
"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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Fave Painting: Eden

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Fave Painting: The Three Ages of Man and Death

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The Secret of Hurricanes : That article in the Waterville Scout said it was Shake- spearean, all that fatalism that guides the Kennedys' lives. The likelihood of untimely death. Recently, another one died in his prime, John-John in an airplane. Not long before that, Bobby's boy. While playing football at high speeds on snow skis. Those Kennedys take some crazy chances. I prefer my own easy ways. Which isn't to say my life hasn't been Shake-spearean. By the time I was sixteen, my life was like the darkened stage at the end of Hamlet or Macbeth. All littered with corpses and treachery.

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