Tool Shed Heart

I left my heart in the tool shed
among the weedy ruins of last year's spring,
and the rust-filled buckets, empty of water,
for no one comes out or goes in.
A sparrow's nest tucked in the corner
no longer a humble home makes,
but sits empty and thread-bare
where once it was awake.
The cling and clank of shovels
is just a memory,
an echo of what used to be
before the snow rolled in.
So here is my liver and my spleen,
looking a little thin and a little green,

wanting use and worse for wear

that is how I misplaced them there.

I left my heart in the tool shed

among the rusty nails and artifacts

and vines have laced through the valves
where once the blood pumped in.
Next year, in the thaw,

when the robin makes her first call

and the crocus shows her face,

I might dig them out again.

Reviews

[M P Ramesh]

invisible,
It is left for the writer to use images and create situations suitable for his/her narration. The view of the most beloved part's alien occupation is almost an attempt from the writer to express the way for minimising the personal element and to keep the work as universal. The challenge is simply overcome and there is hope for its further ownership. Rightly said that the future is designed by the writer only without words and readers get it between words.

carry on............

M P Ramesh

[Angel's Lady]

You know, this remains one of my favorite poems that I have ever read on Writer's Cafe. Thus, it was eleven months ago and, so it is now. Thank you for writing it.

[Angel's Lady]

Very melancholy, very beautifully written, and oh, what a powerful message you beat on out on your drum. Great write, dear lady.