This is the last of the daily posts of poetry. I hope you enjoyed them. Until next year.
Sometimes I feel drawn to them,
not really them, but where they
lay quietly, patiently, in that cold place.
Are they calling to me?
Is that their voices I hear
in the treetops?
It’s been so long, I hardly
remember how their
voices sound, and all I have
are old photographs to remind
me what they looked like.
I’m glad for that, and the stories,
but for another, he doesn’t
even have memories,
they were washed clean
when he was still little,
when they went away
and left him alone.
So it’s been a long month of late night poem writing. I think this one explains what those late nights have been doing to me 🙂 Anja
My left eye twitches involuntarily
so foreign to see the eyelid on my face
a part connected to my bodily surface
move of it’s own accord
not even asking the brain
for permission. The muscle
that controls opening and closing
jerks in defiance of wakefulness.
But the muscles cannot override the lid
down toward the dark pools
below. They can only exert a tremor
willing the eye to dip
behind the eyelid, a physical sunset
that won’t take place until
long after my side of the earth
has rolled over in it’s bed of sky.