...quiet, about a lot of things...

At first I thought they were toying with me. The end has come to Poetry Thursday, for real....When I read the prompt..THE END... for
Sunday Scribblings, I thought ...Just Fantastic. My mother in laws method of breaking a bond.

HUH? you say.

I will explain. My mother in law feels that when it is time for a child "be finished" with something (a bottle, a pacifier, a blankie...) That thing should just vanish in a poof of surprise. Bottle? what bottle?? It's gone. No more bottle. Sure a little emotional scarring will take place..but her feeling is that all wounds heal with time. This explains many nifty little nuances about my husband.

So I thought the web was giving me a rather sudden and vicious gut check.. reminding me of "No Attachments"... when I read the prompt. I felt like Dumbo...with his magic feather. It took him a bit to realize he did not need that feather to fly, even though his friend assured him he did not. "Sunday Scribblings....Meet Poetry Thursday. You are both feathers. Say hello."

But it's just a prompt. And one that ties things up rather neatly for me as Poetry Thursday asks me to post something I am proud of....
Seeing, as just this week, I was introduced to the concepts of others "work shopping" IE revising my work (bloody and messy soul ripping process that it is)....I am feeling no longer proud of any thing. Not ashamed, mind you, just not proud. So since this is a post for two links, I will post two poems.
The first was written when they announced the departure of Poetry Thursday..and fit the Sunday Scribblings prompt well....The second is one I like from earlier on...and speaks to me today. What to do now??? Now that the end has come????


Last Song

At the start
you must
acknowledge
the finish

though the ground
between here
and there seems
vast, and
easily conquered.

You must look
the end in
it's eye.

Be respectful.

Choose to be led,
not chased
towards it.

Pray that
in you greatest
moment of joy
you will
turn around

simply
to find a
soft hand
closing

and a small
breath slowly
stilled.

merely
an instant
shorter
than you
had planned.

wlf




Mating of Weeds

Bring me a fist
full of dandelions, plucked
from the edge of your life.

Let their fuzzy heads bend
under my probing touch.
Smelling only of earth.
Press them into my palm.
Your hand against mine.
Fleshy warm as a greenhouse,
moist with desire.

Let us be poor and in love
with more empty than full.
Ripe with seeds, mostly common,
tugging hard at their seams.


Simple as a glass bottle,
on some worn wooden shelf,
I offer this as vase.
It shows cracks,
but it is sound.
For beginnings,
they weigh next to nothing.


I will muster the strength.
(as the deed has been done)
For there is no stopping this bloom,
once the bloom has begun.

wlf 10:24 thursday

Now go have a look at both of these sites. One is continuing on, the other taking it's final curtain call. I hope you all brought some roses to throw.