love song

I could sense, the light
at the end of the funnel,
breathing thin air,

searching for the missing ring
of yellow fire.

A poem falls out of
my feet. This dawn dark
with the essence
of soap
permeating my feet,
its calluses & bunions.

The body is a fortress,
and this is no love song
to end all love songs.

I’m looking at my
nail color of shimmer
on painted toes,
as forlorn & as lovely.

Process notes: It is eerily dark outside, too dark for quarter to seven in the morning. Donna has a new incarnation for her prompt series called The Poetry Mixtape, and it wanted a love song, celebrating a loved one’s flaws and best qualities, not like “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock”, no. I’m feeling fairly etherized myself. Mine is the love song of feet. I’m thinking of We Write Poem’s body series starting with feet. I’m afraid of feet in poetry. So a poem written in the dark of morning. Where is the light?

poppies in October

You fed me a rose plum.

It was windy, and no one was shovelling snow.

We drifted into old letters
in a rattan basket
containing loss.

Wrapped in a burgundy sweater, my bracelet caught
the stitch of the yarn,
which I disengaged with
the thread coming loose.

It was an unexpected stop
in the wilderness.

We depended on thoughts of friendship
and the kindness of brief
strangers, calling out our names,
we’ll remember for
a lifetime.

The poem hasn’t yet
been born, like a bed of crimson poppies
in October, sprung from a clutch of
seeds; the world still asleep.

Process notes: Beatific words from Marianne for The Sunday Whirl. Don’t ask me why, but there is a vague reference to Sylvia Plath’s poem, “Poppies in October”. Probably because it is the current poetry book in my handbag. I find much of Plath’s lines opaque as hell. Perchance you’ll find my lines opaque as well, murmuring disapproval under your breath. Hey, it’s my first poem in 2012. Happy dance.