Tiny handsaw to cut
Without permission Limbs from my grandmother's trees Miniature hammer For my father's tool belt stolen nails Big enough to hold redwood timbers And life size houses A child-size toolbox in hand To create my fortified Barbie fort For her camper van
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The onslaught, the purge
The final push, the attack I delve in with bags and boxes In hand for dresses Three sizes too small and two sizes too big Closets of marvels, feats of wonder Beautiful and stilettoed Never worn un-painful Spring has sprung and hinges are open Wide for a time to simplify Small refractions flicker across
Blades of grass with dew Evaporating in slow mid-morning heat Welcome a new day and a quickly faded memory Leaving behind traces of tiny mirrors To catch glimpses of wrinkled eyes Junctures in dust and pavement taking
Automobiles to distant distractions Asphalted byways dotted with tolls and trolls And tourist traps readied To take, steal monies Unworthy of the goodies purchased By souls forgotten and primed for the devil and demons Meaningful discourse avoided
Temporarily silenced into static Electricity traveling over sine waves Crisscrossing patterns leading To stagnated voids of Quiet misery My old Dutch desk of pine
Traveled miles, decades to be with me, centuries pass Dents, Scratches, Solid Who wrote love letters on you? Disposable phone placed upon you Gone when the next arrives Never worn out, never used up Will anyone care when you are gone? What lasts longer? A soul made into a desk Or a plastic phone Drawls that languish on tongues
Sliding across lips mumbling native sounds That meld with an old Queen whose English is only heard In homes rooted, grounded in traditional words Unfamiliar to non-native ears Un-air conditioned kitchens in sticky southern Virginia heat
Did the humidity make them rise? Leavening works in mysterious ways Breezes blow through tiny windows releasing smells Of lard and buttermilk into the yard greeting visitors and ghosts Hot, moist, heavenly air sniffed by dogs craving the sweetness More than sustenance As time slows down Life lived with imperfections
Graced by a different drummer so they say Or no drummer at all Just a shrill guitar in the background of loudness Black and deep She doesn't do bubbly She likes her terms Light bursts through windows
Cracked with spider webs of age Swollen shut, caked with paint Wavy blurs of time past When crisp perfection was not required And transcendence demanded hope |
AuthorI'm Kelley Gallop. I live in Virginia and when I find time I write. Archives
December 2021
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