Doorbell Rings Some Time Very Late
Fear upstarts–
quake awake shaking, bleared night silent
but for bell that should not be ringing,
dark but for lights that I’ve fallen
asleep on, torn jagged– “Who’s there?”
my voice
ragged
this side of door, which, shit, is not locked–
Fear tumble-rs through brain
paralyzed against making noticeable click
addresses
chain, a pretense
of metal, that shaking fingers slip
silently into slot.
I call back “No,”
taking hold now of true
lock as eye scope
smudges blurred guy blanking to greenish hall–
A mistake, all
safe, still shaking–no,
there’s stillness
on skin itself, the quiver
inner, as twist
in chest/plexus
refuses to let go of
fisted alarm, armed
against beating flow
of all other tisssued self,
scared stalwart.
**********************************
I’m back from brief blog break! Not exactly rested – especially after being woken up in the middle of the night last night –but really missing my blogging buddies (especially all those great guys at dVerse.) One lingering problem is, of course, that I’m not a poet! If I am any kind of writer at all, it is of novels, but the kindness of the online poetry community is really hard to beat, and that kindess tends to inspire poetry even in prosaic types.
All that said, I am linking the above to Emily Wierenga’s Imperfect Prose. Emily, another kind soul, has posted a poem of mine, “Thin Birthday,” on her other blog, Chasing Silhouettes, with a wonderful painting (by Emily.) Check it out!
Recent Comments