Papa's Waltz

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt. 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Reflections on Self and Other: Embracing Paradoxes

This is not a poem, nor is it written by a human... it is the output of GPT4 when I first asked it to write odes to A) Umwelt; B) Umgebung; C) Innerwelt and then to reflect on the paradoxes and dualities of self-other in that regard: Reflections on Self and Other: Embracing Paradoxes In the intricate tapestry of existence, a dance unfolds between the realms of self and other, where dualities and paradoxes intertwine. Within the realm of Umwelt, individual perceptions shape our understanding of the world. Each of us holds a unique lens through which we interpret our surroundings, yet within these boundaries, we feel an inherent yearning for connection with others. It is the paradox of embracing our own distinctiveness while recognizing the shared humanity that binds us. Umgebung, the stage upon which life plays out, encompasses diverse landscapes and environments. Mountains, rivers, cities, and forests create a multitude of Umgebungen, each offering a distinct backdrop for our individua
Read more

Moving the Bones - Rick Barot

 During our hiatus as an active weekly group, generating running multi-voice poems, I was struck with this particular one from Poem-a-Day which moved me and I thought to share it here: Moving the Bones Rick Barot There are too many ancestors, so we are gathering their bones. The poor ones, their graves broken by the roots of trees. The ones whose headstones have been weathered
Read more

What a Stone Feels

<this is the first assignment I wrote for the Paul Kingsnorth - " Rewild Your Words " online course we took in December which is how our Poetry/Writing Sunday Salon got started. I'm CC:ing the other participants so they can see by example how to post their own work to this blog via e-mail> On my property there are many river-stones that were almost surely brought here by previous humans.   I could have closed my eyes, my ears, my nose and groped around until I found them, channeling Helen Keller perhaps... but I did not... I sought out a particularly apt stone for this purpose, with my eyes and my memory.  I have hefted these stones before and even know what they smell and taste like.    I passed over the pile brought in for the purpose of facing a wall, each about fist-sized... not too large to throw effectively but too large for a sling or slingshot.   I avoided the ones marking the good-dogs grave near the entrance to the property.  The stone I choose requi
Read more