Dead is the soup, no more potatoes on the board
Dead is the Shalimar soaked scarves on the door
Dead comes the memory of smashed pots on walls
And broken eggs still in cracked dishes on the floor
Dead giggles down hallways where she chased
Little girl hiding in winter boots and grandma’s lace
Dead comes the warm paper skinned hands
That kneaded the bread and rolled pie dough with cans
Dead are the winter nights as black as coal
Christmas light watching sipping her coffee cold
Dead are the secrets each of us carried
Dead is the garden of our arguments parried
Dead am I as cherished daughter
Dead is the place called home by lake water
Dead comes her call from decades now past
Dead are my longings for safe sail and mast
An anaphora (repetition of phrase). A work in progress from The Writer’s Church, Boulder, CO. Hosted by Marj Hahne
5 thoughts on “Dead”
Thanks. I played with it in color, but it just didn’t have the same mood.
I think B&W is very good for ‘mood’. The absence of color makes it less connected to the visible world and therefore more open for ‘spiritual matters’.
Reminds me of the rise and rise of re-photography, photography of abandoned places and/or urbex (urban exploring of the same with camera) all over internet – eg check out http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2316987/Photographer-Niki-Feijens-eerie-images-abandoned-farm-houses.html
Its illegal and dangerous but amazing in a horror-fascination vein.
Wow, love these photos, Rosalie. You’d like these as well. They document the fall and abandonment of Detroit. http://marchandmeffre.com/detroit/