12-01-2017, 09:18 AM
Hi Keith, I'm new here but not to poetry. This is a really nice piece of writing, I admire your approach on capturing someone so close to the end, free of sentimentality yet so precise in your descriptions that show the reader. I also like the fact that I don't need a key to unlock the meaning, it does just the opposite, leaving the reader quite an impression. Here are just a few thoughts to ponder
Edit 1
I wasn’t sure I'd remember the hous........................left the e off
an old photograph was all I had;
self-seeded plants softened the cracks
but the driveway was still black and white.
Arthur’s shape opened the door.....................I pause here, maybe just Arthur opened the door
his face gouged like sculptors clay,
thin lines stretched over cheek bones
thumbed deep into eye sockets.
The meniscus of old age had bottled his vision....................one of my favorite lines
but he still carried a whiskey gruffness
that reminded me of forgotten songs................................here too
and pearl inlays.
Pyjamas protruded under his clothes
as he moved towards his chair
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk;
stroke is such a gentle word...............................love the subtlety here
The room had held onto its memory,........................really great line
Margaret and Jimmy
smiling behind a layer of dust
worn out and worn down,
family and furniture held in echoes.
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath........Maybe,...He spoke in exhaled breaths, bending to make the sounds
to make the sounds.
he told me how much he missed my mother.
“She
wath
mi
baby
sithter ”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell
lifted its head to sniff the air.
“Heths
fuckin
farthted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand.................perfect...... I would have to add that such a great piece deserves a better title, just my 2 cents
Thanks for the read Linda
Original
I wasn’t sure I would remember the house
an old photograph was all I had,
self seeded plants softened the cracks
but the driveway was still black and white.
Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
his face gouged like sculptors clay
thin lines under cheek bones
thumbed deep into eye sockets.
The meniscus of old age bottled his vision
but he still had a Whiskey gruffness
that reminded me of forgotten songs
and pearl inlays.
Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he moved around the room to fall fireside,
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk,
stroke is such a gentle word.
The room had kept hold of its memory,
veneered in dust and damp that crept out of the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember.
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath
to make the sounds.
he told me how much he missed my mother.
“She
was
my
baby
sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell
lifted its head to sniff the air.
“He’s
fuckin
farted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand.
[/quote]
Edit 1
I wasn’t sure I'd remember the hous........................left the e off
an old photograph was all I had;
self-seeded plants softened the cracks
but the driveway was still black and white.
Arthur’s shape opened the door.....................I pause here, maybe just Arthur opened the door
his face gouged like sculptors clay,
thin lines stretched over cheek bones
thumbed deep into eye sockets.
The meniscus of old age had bottled his vision....................one of my favorite lines
but he still carried a whiskey gruffness
that reminded me of forgotten songs................................here too
and pearl inlays.
Pyjamas protruded under his clothes
as he moved towards his chair
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk;
stroke is such a gentle word...............................love the subtlety here
The room had held onto its memory,........................really great line
Margaret and Jimmy
smiling behind a layer of dust
worn out and worn down,
family and furniture held in echoes.
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath........Maybe,...He spoke in exhaled breaths, bending to make the sounds
to make the sounds.
he told me how much he missed my mother.
“She
wath
mi
baby
sithter ”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell
lifted its head to sniff the air.
“Heths
fuckin
farthted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand.................perfect...... I would have to add that such a great piece deserves a better title, just my 2 cents
Thanks for the read Linda
Original
I wasn’t sure I would remember the house
an old photograph was all I had,
self seeded plants softened the cracks
but the driveway was still black and white.
Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
his face gouged like sculptors clay
thin lines under cheek bones
thumbed deep into eye sockets.
The meniscus of old age bottled his vision
but he still had a Whiskey gruffness
that reminded me of forgotten songs
and pearl inlays.
Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he moved around the room to fall fireside,
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk,
stroke is such a gentle word.
The room had kept hold of its memory,
veneered in dust and damp that crept out of the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember.
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath
to make the sounds.
he told me how much he missed my mother.
“She
was
my
baby
sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell
lifted its head to sniff the air.
“He’s
fuckin
farted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand.
[/quote]