Fetching Dickinson

She Selects
Her Own
Society

Words of
Her Mind in Motion–
Perpetually

Abstracting Image–
Disintegrating Time and Place

Apprehending
Meaning–

Until Words
Create
Company

Her Chamber Safe–
From Modern inference

And Absent
Presence–
Strange Beauty
Reveals itself
In its Shining
Permanence

Lament for Miss Adelaide

Lament for Miss Adelaide

On this
Starry set guys and ghosts
Block out subterranean crap-games,
Her psychosomatic blues sing out
Ol’ blue eyes.

But he won’t cure her
With Bromo fizz … pearls and mink
Wraps and the final curtains of red
Lipstick clad dolls.

In the style of this week’s Poem of the week: two cinquains by Adelaide Crapsey

Comfort

Writing poetry
is a secret source
of calm. Safe.
Prescribed.

Uncomfortable

You spend your time reading
Poetry? Really?
Makes me feel uncomfortable,
Just thinking about it.

Too close

She didn’t like to talk about such things as politics
or poverty. Wouldn’t dirty her hands in any way.
She already knew the answers. Better off kept buried
than resurface tortured and dying. Safer that way.
Hide the spade. Change and all the dirt flying about.
Privy to the other side of things:
the reasonable, the calm and the beautiful,
(we don’t riot here, do we?)
beholden for all she was worth,
besides why do you need to get so hot about it?
Change the subject, she’d say.
Take a book, a painting, pottery,
anything at all, but she couldn’t get away.
Not really. Her dislike was written in every book,
in every picture if she dared to look,
even her fingers in the wet slab of clay
kneading away brought it way too close.