Driftwood

What can I write of today,
I wonder, sitting here,
where crumbs are scattered,
like love adrift on a shore,
I want the driftwoods of life
to be carved and placed
high above the old oak door.
So I sit with a dimming light,
music playing as in a cupboard
that I have barely had time to
look in, a leather case, with
silk interior invites me to play
but I am loathe and as I
walk past, I strike a chord
on the piano, it reminds
me of sunshine and ripe
fruit, butterflies and wasps.

I can write of so much
and yet so little,
I could tell you, I sang
or that I didn't
that I bought, sold and lost,
that I smiled,
shed a secret tear,
wore my shear pastel dress
and killer shoes,
I felt good, in that way
when all comes together
except inside I felt ripped apart,
the solilquay of me
sung in solitude,
the one I choose
and like to be
and then I don't.

What of my day?
One of so many that has been
and will be and will come and go
until one day, they will
like the dimming light
slowly shut the veined lids
as once the flesh I bore
will be inside and beyond
and the dancing firelight
will light on faces
but I shall be in that room
once so close, now far away.
Do words survive
or do they die
or does the memory of love
etch them like the driftwood
that adorns the mantle
of an old aged oak door.





Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 735 times
Written on 2015-09-10 at 20:39

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
This is so poignant. The feeling and the objects you describe tie it all together like a rustic bundle of firewood. One of your best :)
2015-09-12


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Wonderfully expressed musings, Elle. There's a peaceful accepting melancholy here, gently told, all veiled with the mist of yesterday.
2015-09-12


Ivan R
Tremendous. Heavy. And beautiful.
2015-09-11