Leftover Poem Parts   Leave a comment


the sun heats wood so dry
it crackles before it’s lit
and wrinkles skin
into leafy parchment
and one fall-lit day
as the trees light with gold
my father shrinks
before my eyes
massive no more
so small a nursing staff person
slips the Black Hills gold ring
across his bent arthritic knuckle
over the swollen joints of a life

and whisks it away in a pocket
of deceit    to where?
a gift to someone loved?
sold to a pawn shop miles away?
the ring lives on with a new life

Dad never knew it was gone
though we tore the room apart
searching as he slept the sleep
before death
he wanted recognized for riches he never had
did he know not dying alone is rich
I think so         finally

as a child,
my mother lived in a basement house
tapped a dance on the roof
while her blacksmith father did whatever blacksmiths
do to make their arms hefty and strong
she saw soldiers on horses at Fort Robinson
where Crazy Horse was killed then whisked away by family to hide his body somewhere
safe and escapable

soldiers scared my six year-old mother
trouble rides in on horses
and other innocuous ways

leap on the color you choose
but sometimes the horse picks you in the watery dark of night                  sometimes in the dry light of day

Mary Strong Jackson

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Posted April 8, 2012 by strongjacksonpoet54 in Uncategorized

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