The prompt today is to write a poem from the inside out, or from the ouside in. Hmmm - I see my effort below as needing work.
From the Inside Out
watching became her daily duty.
To get out of bed, to wash and dress,
to find something edible from the
groceries brought her,
to clean the dish or two, straighten that
which needed no straightening,
Right Hip burning pain,
Left Leg shocking stabs from patella to
toe with every step.
Her chair, positioned by the window,
was her dry oasis, her confessional,
the window’s gauze curtain, her veil.
She would sit through the days, regretting
her life’s foolishness, watching traffic, neighbors,
and the children in the playground,
thanking God she could still watch,
still hear the screams of the swings,
the children’s shrieks and laughter, a
“Come out and play,” they called to her.
And she did. She heard the slap of her
Buster Browns on the asphalt, saw
her bare knees lifting one after the other
below her short playdress as she ran,
felt her pig tails flying, felt the familiar
wooden swing seat under her rump
the ropes in her hands –
pumping her legs upward
lifting herself to the bluest of skies,
then as the swing fell backwards, tucking
her legs under, hard – and, free, crazy, light
as the air she was flashing through,
no thought of breath or bone or balance
“Watch me, see how high I can go!”
But, the streetlights were coming on
the playground was emptying. With a sigh
and a great agony of effort
she rose from her chair to prepare
for the night.
Villa Auguste Blanqui - The 13th arrondissement is to a rather large extent full of more or less modern buildings, not always what many of us would consider as the utmost in arc...
2 days ago