Sunday, March 29, 2009

POEM: Black Gold

My mother leaves my coffee can open
morning is stale, flat, weak

She uses the last slice of bread
noon is empty, unfullfilled, hungry

My mother put rotten food back in my refrigerator
my evening is disturbed


She says she didn't know where I wanted to put it
thought I had a special place
for things spoiled

I do
my childhood memories make handy containers

my dreams compost the scraps
slumbering, steaming, changing
awake I sift through the clumps
and enrich my writing with the best
of the worst


Chuck Dilmore said...

i guess
if i give such a big exhale
it's only because of a deep inhalation.

nice, nice going.

that your pen
is so in tune with your heart
says much about you...

all good.
all good.
keep writing! this is wonderful!


Kayleigh said...

Thanks you Chuck, all of your thoughtful comments on these poems are great to hear :D