Brown Recluse sails the morning thread,
droops down with the peony, ascends
a reaching clematis: open and gloried blue
angel-- creeper still slick with night wet.
There is no place that the weaver won't
reach; its spinnerets are furiously graced.
And there is nothing that will wake
you now that the side rails have been lowered,
your clutching hand removed.
When you left, your face became a tunnel,
narrow and lightless; your mouth an entry only.
10 comments:
Sounds like a painful "good bye"
nicely written
jb
omg! this took my breath away!
no! i don't want it back!
love to be dead in this powerful piece... full of pain and passion...
the last two lines... wow! what a unique image!
i just sat here gazing at your words... seeing the images vividly... and...
.
a beginning
with no end
darkness
with no light
footprints
with no feet
one
without one
a pain
both bitter and
sweet
.
What a beautiful and painful poem, Megan.
"When you left, your face became a tunnel" I love this!
Gorgeous and painful poem, Megan.
"When you left, your face became a tunnel/narrow and lightless; your mouth an entry only."
Amazing! This part is now reverberating in my mind.
I agree with Jenny and PO and the others about the painful feel, Megan. I love how it ends and the beginning is full of interesting images.
Great stuff.
jb: Thank you. Yes, the most painful goodbye I have witnessed.
human being: Thank you so much. Your verse tells of a universal truth.
PO: Thank you. Your comment means a lot.
Jenny: I'm so glad this resonates with you.
Ande: Thank you. I am still curious about the first stanza myself.
I like the spider scene, especially in the close-up mode here. And several of the words there sound ssoooo good to the ear: 'clematis' and 'spinnerets.' And "sails the morning thread" -- a very good line. Cheers.
Like this a lot Megan. I've read it at least 20 times and it keeps getting better. Little groovy things: the internal rhyme of place and graced; the wake implied by the lowering of the rails; the tunnel face; the entry of the mouth. Bravo!
S.L. Thank you. It's an honor to have you read my work.
Gerry: Thanks. This started as a spider poem. Ended somewhere else.
Yeah, wow. The spider and the death do go together well, the flower becomes the mouth easily in my mind's eye. I have to stop reading now and go mop a laundromat, but I am just going to leave the screen here and keep going later. Megan Duffy, your poems have made me late for work. Hope you're satisfied. Thanks for making your work available - doesn't the future rule?
PG
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