Afterwards

Afterwards

by C.T. Bailey

 

Afterwards, when there is no more crescendo

in the yelling; when there is no more whisk of the broom

sweeping broken glass that scratches the tile

like chalk etching words of insincere remorse

 

on a blackboard; when the remnants of photographs

are collected by trembling fingers

which earlier shred them in earnest;

I pause for a cold moment,

 

looking through our bay window

at the rivulets of water tracing the panes,

the wide-eyed peonies, joy-drunk

laughing at June’s passing torrent,

 

and twirling maple leaves, flashing

silver and green distress signals

as winds carry them to their last breath;

in the glass, also, my reflection.

Reviews

[Rick Puetter]

Dear Todd,

Wow. A nice pensive and reflective piece. Fire and ice! Rage of the storm, flowers in the meadow. Just reacting to the world, and then sitting back looking at the world, lost in reflections literal and figurative.

A very nice piece. This was greatly enjoyed. Highest marks! You get a 98, and you know what that means from me. Stunning.

Very best regards,

Rick

Rick

[Zahra]

on a blackboard; when the remnants of
photographs
are collected by trembling fingers
which earlier shred them in earnest;
I pause for a cold moment,

beautiful imagery. well crafted.

[Mark]

Todd, you are the apotheosis of the modern poet. For even when there is no rhyme, here is a song-like quality to your ruminations I never hope to equal. To look with regret at the shreds of a once-treasured photograph, and in the next breath, at the tatters of the now-denuded maple (while reminding us in the joy-drunk peonies that sparkling moments of exquisite joy are yet to be found) to your own reflection, leaving the implication to the reader's mind, is just inspired.