Sometimes, when I post poetry, I am tempted to explain myself, but then I remember how very much I like to read poetry and how very little I enjoy having poetry explained to me (even if, and sometimes, especially if, the person doing the explaining is the writer). These words move me, and that’s enough. I offer you nothing but exactly what I want to say.
______________________
In the mornings, he wakes to find
cover-darknessed youth
has forfeited on his behalf
resignation
foregone conclusion
in their eyes
Shoulder to stone, he rights
against unseen foes
solitary proof of his existence
claiming for another day
his due to this small plot
of withdrawal
In dusk’s decline, shadows cast
lengthwise
shortening possibilities
the dull thud of promise
laying waste to the bare king
anew
Whatever pictures conjured the words for you…
Those words then turn, and conjure pictures for me.
That will more than do.
This makes me imagine Jack trying to steal a spot on the bed with one of the girls but finding it impossible until one of them is mostly asleep and just kinda groans and scoots a bit to give him a spot to curl up in. Then after they have gotten up for the day, he trashes the bed.
I could be way off but this is the picture that floated through my head reading this.
So much giggling … in my mind there are no dogs in this poem. None at all.
An old man.
Statuary.
Youth.
I cannot begin to imagine your version.
I love it, though.
Thank you.