Two old palings lean together. One wets a rolly
wrist all knobs and gristle
Staring ahead chipped syllables like a stream
run over mountains—
Too many winters up in the hills while spring
grassed the turned graves
unmarked. Unmarked. The minaret felled and
tanks on the highways—
Doleful, the other agrees—and there’s talk and talk
says nothing. Emphatically,
he gobs onto the pebblecrete a green jewel, his heart
glistens in the sunshine.
Above birds crowd the eaves and branches.
Doll-eyed they remember,
rue the day they let Tippi Hedren pass, love
birds at her breast. Never
more. Ravens above, trios of magpies busk a chip
purchase on plastic chairs.
This one from the archives – and posted today at dverse the poet’s pub – open link night #206 – where Gayle is hosting.
Peter Frankis writes 
So much great language here. “chipped syllables like a stream
run over mountains” — loved that especially, but others great too.
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Nuggets of brilliance to savor!
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Thanks v much Bev.
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Rhythmic and lyrical, your dark poem trips along deceptively, Peter. I particularly enjoyed the ‘chipped syllables like a stream / run over mountains’ and
‘he gobs onto the pebblecrete a green jewel, his heart
glistens in the sunshine’.
The doll-eyed birds made me shiver.
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Thanks Kim.
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This is all so wonderful and somber. I can’t get over the phrase: “while spring
grassed the turned graves”
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Thanks so much.
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I initially was taken with your line “while spring grassed the turned graves” and the poem escalated in imagery and thought provoking phrases from there…strong and powerful.
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Thank you –
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Really love how you made objects cam alive, with that end taking the turn to the eerie… (I had to google Tippi Hedren though)….
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