04-03-2016, 11:34 PM
Jig No More
Fair Annie was starting her twenty-third year
with a job, a home, her favorite dog;
a moon face of freckles and ginger hair,
a laugh as pure as her ancestors' brogue.
She'd piece the puzzles, solve the clues,
and grab for life with a glittering eye.
Her mama's dead aunt spread family news
by tilting a painting to warn someone'd died,
on Annie's last day it lay on the floor.
The priest spoke hopefully that we might believe
"A bad day for us but a good day for her."
A disaster for us but for her a reprieve.
She left behind the smoking gun:
a cupboard of empty bottles of rum.
Fair Annie was starting her twenty-third year
with a job, a home, her favorite dog;
a moon face of freckles and ginger hair,
a laugh as pure as her ancestors' brogue.
She'd piece the puzzles, solve the clues,
and grab for life with a glittering eye.
Her mama's dead aunt spread family news
by tilting a painting to warn someone'd died,
on Annie's last day it lay on the floor.
The priest spoke hopefully that we might believe
"A bad day for us but a good day for her."
A disaster for us but for her a reprieve.
She left behind the smoking gun:
a cupboard of empty bottles of rum.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips