Post by Guest »

The last sunshine was your eyes on my skin
your voice danced in my mouth
while your painted nails softly scratched
up under my pink silk blouse
as we lay beneath green-leaf summer sycamore trees

only opposites are allowed to attract here
and we were the same

the sky turned to the color of pearl,
formed by an irritation
now I'm only aware of winter in the dark
all the trees have been stripped naked
by autumn's raping hand, but our sycamores
whose leaves refuse to let go
in weather as cold as a corpse
although they're brown and curling in
as if trying to protect themselves
so brittle they'd crumble to dust if touched

you screamed, "RUN"!
I ran
into a sudden night
darkening between blinks of my eyes
now I hurry where only shadows of hands
reach out hoping to grasp each other
under s no-star sky
midnight wears a moonstone brooch
but it is cracked, split by a sharp black cloud
a finger pointing final accusation

boy's faces float behind me
enraged for reasons only they know
or don't know
stones seeking blood in their fists
through suffocating mist
maybe it's heaven's sweat falling
or hell's hot breath rising
I know no path to follow
I know no destiny, no destination
I only know I left you there
and none of the hands are yours
reaching out for me

somewhere I hear chanting, drums
so distant they must be across a sea
© Cathy Mccormick
Joyce H.

Post by Joyce H. »

Beautiful imagery here that's poignant and original. However, it's also one of those poems that I can't figure out. I don't understand why the lover yelled, "RUN!" and the reference to the boys' faces. I realize that poetry is personal and the poet has license to do whatever he or she wishes with words. You also mentioned the trees being stripped bare by autumn's raping hand. In most places that I know of, trees are not stripped bare until winter time. Winter is the harshest season; in some states, Autumn is the most beautiful with her changing colors in shades of reds, yellows, golds, and rust hues. I enjoyed your poem, but it's meaning wasn't entirely clear to me. But then I write prose, not poetry.

Post by Lindi »

I couldn't get past Autumns raping was too intense for me. Autumn doesn't releases, it lets go, it steps aside for a time of rest in preparation for a time of renewal. I love Autumn...she has a gentle touch after the fierce heat of summer, she is a time of reflection and release

Last bumped by Anonymous on Sat Mar 18, 2023 12:13 am.
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