"Those were hard things for me to come by, and I offer them to you for what they may be worth." - Toby Wolff

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

And The Reality Is

it will be a day like any other.
The sun will rise
and the clock will tick one moment into the next
with the smallest of sounds in the emptiest place.

Your bad knee will ache no more, no less
than the day preceding, or the day next.
The garden flowers will still have color
so incrementally fading that unconscious denial is an easy mask
over the fact they are dying along with you.
In fact it feels like everything outside is vibrantly alive
and loud
and big.

People will say "hello"
and you'll fight being incredulous.
Don't they know?
Isn't it obvious to everyone
that the ground is about to open beneath your small, unsteady feet
and you down into the mouth of it
with nothing left on the curb of the earth
but a belch to this monumental thing...
this un-doing.

But you are not un-done
simply unraveled more, and spun
down to the spool
the barest of things
the end of yourself,
and there is nothing wrong with that dear.
From the quiet and stillness of you will grow a sound
and the sound will build note by note
discordant at first
but none the less musical.

Oh that magical day
when you break out into song again.
Sing loud love.
Those notes were hard to come by
and well out of your range


  1. And that day will come! I feel like you're speaking of the human condition here, like an Auden poem. I know many air mail envelopes did not bring good news. I think most of us have had these moments, ground about to open beneath our feet. I like your phrase "curb of the earth". I like this poem.

    1. I was hoping it would be relate-able to many moments in time. Specifically this embodies the element of dread....something you know is coming and feel may be unmanageable!

  2. i just read this but at the same time had just posted something i wrote for a friend. eerily synonymous.

    wonderful write, mi amiga. although i find nothing discordant about music when the fingers or the voice are only projecting the revirbirations of life


    1. I find this happens a lot with blog postings. Something seems to be in the air everywhere at once and the poets are plucking their pen leaves from the same tree of thought. It's kind a cool I think!

  3. Thank you for this. Wonderful as usual, and so timely, almost merging thoughts, of I’m sure, completely different experiences.
    Have missed…

    1. The poetry hat can fit so many different heads! That's one of the most delightful things about it. Individual interpretation is colored by the reader more so than the writer. You are so steady Anthony. Always here. It's a comfort :)

  4. hope, always hope
    Beautiful words.

    1. I write more hope than I feel. Perhaps that, in and of itself, is hope :)

  5. Sing, Annie, sing. Beautiful, hope-filled write. I love you, BFF. You deserve an entire galaxy of symphonies. xo

    1. I love you too dear. *smooch* (and Ray too of course) I have been singing much more, and I do mean that literally. As soon as something is recorded I will send it to you!

  6. Hey Sunshine...

    Ive been thinking of you... How have you been?



    1. Shoes! How the hell are ya? I am well. Therapy. LOTS of therapy, LOL! Keeping the shrinks in business ;)

  7. Absolutely beautiful.

    1. Thank you Kass! Poems are few and far between these days as time seems to keep shrinking.

  8. so the ground opens and a sound builds note by note: i'd say that's a pretty nice place to be heading, if not already into. you are so close, annie, and i think you know it. from the complex to the simple r.

    i'm always glad to be able to visit you here. FB, eh! I like seeing you and keeping up with you but here: here we are deep r.


    1. I love seeing all your photos of Provincetown. You do realize I am going to come visit you one day. It's unavoidable. I am drawn in so many ways :)

  9. Well, evidentally I was sent here today to read THIS. I am waiting and walking to that day...and some days I feel I am making progress and then Saturday comes and I fall back into that hole left by his absence. Thank you for this.


Thank you for listening.