Here are two poems I've written recently. Shared them with the Writer's Guild so I thought I would share with everyone else. Feedback welcome. My disclaimer is that I've never experienced either of the things detailed in the poems but I've always sympathized greatly with them both.
A story that doesn?t wash
and raindrops beat down
window dust
and muddy water slithers down
the rusted gutters
bathing gardens
gone years untilled
beside the driveway
shifted awry by roots
of a lurching willow
one backyard with
mossy picnic tables where
a family played
seen through a window
by a picture frame
vibrant parents and smiling children
contrast the mantelpiece
lauded with manufactured portraits of
distant offspring or
aged smiles
a flash
the roar of thunder
mean ?ol wind whistling his tune
but the crooked swing moves
softly
as if pushed by ghostly hands
a woman rocks in an old
chair
basking in warmth of
the fire place
lit on cold nights by Dad
Mom brewing tea
her brothers laughing with her
she still remembers
but that time
flows as freely
as curtains of water
from the storm
and passes just as quickly
like a day dream
she still smells the onions or the
spaghetti sauce
it doesn?t matter which
one last glance
she takes the picture by the window
and leaves
her car sputtering
humming
as it turns a corner
laughter lingering in that yard
with a sign reading
foreclosed
and raindrops beat down
window dust
and muddy water slithers down
the rusted gutters
bathing gardens
gone years untilled
beside the driveway
shifted awry by roots
of a lurching willow
one backyard with
mossy picnic tables where
a family played
seen through a window
by a picture frame
vibrant parents and smiling children
contrast the mantelpiece
lauded with manufactured portraits of
distant offspring or
aged smiles
a flash
the roar of thunder
mean ?ol wind whistling his tune
but the crooked swing moves
softly
as if pushed by ghostly hands
a woman rocks in an old
chair
basking in warmth of
the fire place
lit on cold nights by Dad
Mom brewing tea
her brothers laughing with her
she still remembers
but that time
flows as freely
as curtains of water
from the storm
and passes just as quickly
like a day dream
she still smells the onions or the
spaghetti sauce
it doesn?t matter which
one last glance
she takes the picture by the window
and leaves
her car sputtering
humming
as it turns a corner
laughter lingering in that yard
with a sign reading
foreclosed
A sudden occurrence;
the kneading of knuckles upon
the mattress, the fists clenched
and those knuckles white
The television blares;
a green underbelly of
clouds, the maw of the storm
above the sea of homes that surround
Soon, says the ticker,
the approaching train wail
will silence the news feed;
take cover now.
Running down the hallway?
where the children grew up
back when you were all together
happy
Remember the summers when
everyone was young, and
the family was together?
why did those days end?
You tear pictures off the wall while
you sprint,
to the hallway closet,
the old haunt for hide and seek
There are tears in those few moments
when you reach for the spurned
baby blankets;
the memories
And the room goes dark while
you hold it all close
and breathe
as the walls bend inward
and the wind whirls?
I?ve dreamed
I only know what I?ve seen in movies,
the stereotypical feelings
of the victim;
but I?ve never been one
I cannot imagine.
So by gods or whatever might be
I swear I shall not forsake hearts
Less fortunate than me
the kneading of knuckles upon
the mattress, the fists clenched
and those knuckles white
The television blares;
a green underbelly of
clouds, the maw of the storm
above the sea of homes that surround
Soon, says the ticker,
the approaching train wail
will silence the news feed;
take cover now.
Running down the hallway?
where the children grew up
back when you were all together
happy
Remember the summers when
everyone was young, and
the family was together?
why did those days end?
You tear pictures off the wall while
you sprint,
to the hallway closet,
the old haunt for hide and seek
There are tears in those few moments
when you reach for the spurned
baby blankets;
the memories
And the room goes dark while
you hold it all close
and breathe
as the walls bend inward
and the wind whirls?
I?ve dreamed
I only know what I?ve seen in movies,
the stereotypical feelings
of the victim;
but I?ve never been one
I cannot imagine.
So by gods or whatever might be
I swear I shall not forsake hearts
Less fortunate than me
