Posted tagged ‘narrative poem’

The Moment My Own Nurse

July 29, 2017


The Moment My Own Nurse

Of course, she’d been drugged, but
“I just can’t believe it, I can’t
believe it,” she exclaimed even as
she breathed, and in the elevator,
took my face in both hands,
as I bent over
the gurney, and

‘oh” my name, she said, you know, saying
my name, and “oh” my name
so intensely that the nurse
teared up,

and it’s not that we
are in perfect synch or
synch,
though I did know how to calm her somehow
both pre- and post-op, playing just the right music into
her almost deaf ears, able too to sing
along–

still, it was a moment–my mother loving me–
no, my mother always
loves me–but my mother loving me
with her hands–

I can feel them yet, the flow of blood that turned
the cool palms pink, there
on my cheeks,
I can feel them
yet.

 

**************

For my own prompt on Real Toads (posting later today) to write a poem using narrative.  The drawing is mine; all rights reserved.   

ps will be traveling today so may be late in returning comments, thanks!

Saved Maple Leaf

September 17, 2016

Saved Maple Leaf

The maple leaf found itself
in a dresser drawer.
It was not crinkled into
the plastic pin box,
which once snagged jewelry in a slice of sponge,
but now held only a small tooth
gullied by sienna.

It was not slipped
into the envelope of cut hair whose strands stuck together
as if still attached
at the roots.

It did not bind to the rippled chorus programs, flapped homework, rustle
of candy wrappers,

nor tuft in the ruffled kleenex,
wind around the purple crayon, nor nestle
in the slightly sandy scatter
of shells, each too small
to sound the sea.

No; it lucked into
a flattened smear of lotion (containing lanolin),
which (as is somehow the task allotted to sheep), shawled it
in a protective lawyer, so that its veins retained
their suppleness; its crimson its red.

Though, still, the drawer grew dead,
for reasons the leaf could not fathom,
even as it dreamed when sun warmed the wood overhead
of pancakes–
it felt a curious kinship with pancakes–until,

over time, the lanolin shedding
its fat, the leaf mourned
its pine life,
crimping painfully
as it remembered the chatter of the tooth’s
rattled box, and the touch that used to rifle
through the programs, searching
for a last piece
of that candy,
remembering too the proud “ooh”
that proclaimed the enveloped hair,
and the blue that would show there, in
the opening, some of the sky
fallen through.

***********************

Here’s a narrative poem of sorts for my own prompt on Real Toads.   The pic is mine, though the wood background not the raw pine I imagine for this dresser.