My dearest Lavinia,
for Emily Dickinson
You, ever my confidante-
I hoped that you might be
available, fingers interlaced,
with my boot step atop-
ready to boost me up.
Mother, in the kitchen, was at an audible distance,
and I tried not to let my dark red-
tea spill on my lap when I felt it,
she cannot stand to see me stained.
I should know to not hurry to her-
when I am troubled.
And father and brother, ever-sober
stoically cast their eyes aside-
away from me and my feminine zeal.
My heart breaking, but bound up in lace.
My blaspheming, unlovely thoughts-
of keeping the Sabbath at home.
They just see joggled-
weary eyes stuck inside too many books.
They do not hear me.
My, dear, dear sister,
you know I am always alone, and
always willing to endure it-
I am still sweet as honey,
But lately bees are few-
and all I have are buzzing memories.
As I write this letter you cannot see-
this true look of agony, on my face.
You soft, cherubic creature, my sister.
As you know I have not made any marital commitments,
and as you know my heart is once again broken,
But I will continue to stand upon my toes-
Even though no man had ever instructed me.
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Tickle your toes. . .
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two squinting painted eyes looking solemn on a leathery face. this knight of the golden age has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat atop his slicked... -
to have sticky pins for fingertips and ballpoint pens for thumbs. then I could fascinate myself to you, and write away doldrums.
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July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someone d...
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July 9th i feel like running again. it's either that or swimming in a valley of tears. July 10th you couldn't tell by looking at us,...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but... -
My dearest Lavinia, for Emily Dickinson You, ever my confidante- I hoped that you might be available, fingers interlaced, with my boot step ...
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our silence comes easy and there is much to it the commingling of our fingers and the swapping of palm oils and the nimble saltation of ...
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RICK: Hey Rick? DICK: Yea, Dick? RICK: See that sky roll on by? (points) DICK: ...Oh, my... RICK: Don't i-t'almost makes yer wanner.... -
Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
Poets United Contributor
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mgPkLMyREDY
ReplyDeleteEmily Dickinson
She was no longer a user
Don't think she realised we knew that
Not one to make a fuss
Why this and not something else
Wasn't it obvious?
She made such a hash of it
You can’t help but notice
A near absence of tenderness
And who wants to live like that?
And friends turned their backs on her
She, no longer a user
And she wanted to stay home
With a box full of postcards
And no place to send them
Live like Emily Dickinson
Without so much as a kiss
Or the comfort of strangers
Withdrawing into herself
But why this and not something else?
hah, awesome.
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