Deboned

sitting in the blossom grove

dead shadows in the mist

losing moments of friendship

and missing love

like a bullet hole

wounded and winded inside

tarmac stretching to

1000 degrees, and each road leading

no place

looking for a haven 

for the self crucified

a hill or shallow mountain

in a fog of wine and breeze

sunlight smiling

and bleeding husks of soldier trees

a trammelled patch

of undergrowth

the only mark I leave

a futile foot- fall pilgrimage

for the broken and depraved

lasting empty endless days

and burning nights of rage

a dyslexic life or tears

an unknown paraphrase of promise

unrecognised in language

speak of heart of death of love

emotions washed away

ripping the moon with a 

frenzied fist of orange nails

shoes

news

and blues

in borrowed white and tan

answer my bag's leather dreams

and return to shell

in the mollusc of me

fossils in waiting

 

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i just have to apply this to the current situation, with shelter in place, living and dying alone because there is no contact. Getting to where nothing looks or feels beautiful anymore...Where there is so much unrest for various reasons.
I find it frightening, the idea of being a fossil in waiting,while living in my shell.
thank you for this poem.

I could not have come anywhere near saying it better.

mollusc j.

[gram linski]

thanks, j. this was written awhile ago but does seem to resonate for whatever reason, that feeling of being alone of detachment,, again your reviews are lke poemettes in and of themselves, thank you for your great review, and appreciating my humble attempts at some kind of poetic form

[Brian Shepard]

I love the pace a lack of punctuation lends, leaving emphasis to line breaks. Caustic imagery, very evocative. Well played sir.

[gram linski]

glad you enjoyed, Brian, never got the hang of commas and semi colons, so might as well ignore the fuckers, lol, thanks for reading, appreciate it

[barleygirl]

I almost wrote: "I'M JEALOUS!" and left it at that . . . I feel so unequal to the task of responding to this when I have nothing even remotely worthwhile to add. I just wish I could someday learn to throw down a collection of powerful yet disparate images that come together to convey such a tortured & yet fulfilling way to describe getting down the road of life in some aspect. I love this word/phrase: self-crucified . . . I could write an entire poem on that one concept alone. Reading you makes me want to stretch this unwieldy brain outside my current limitations! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[gram linski]

hey, Margie, i am a bit jealous of your loquacious style sometimes, thanks for the great review, feel free to take my words and bend them to fit your form, hugs back at ya, appreciate your visit

[Eilis]

This feels like a major life change or transition where the speaker is trying to decide if where they are going is where they belong. Your title is quite evocative, and when coupled with the mollusk and husk imagery, could almost lead me to believe the voice believes itself to be a ghost. Maybe we all feel this way sometimes--like whatever we have done or wherever we have come from--all of that history could disappear and the world would remain as perfectly balanced as it was before.

But this is never the case. Each human being, just like each other living thing, leaves a wake and the world is forever altered by that wake whether it feels significant or not. Your trammelled patch of undergrowth is an apt image for considering what's left when we move away. The ground remembers us. Our imprint remains in many ways--seen and unseen. I like the way your poem confirms this while, in a way, trying to convince itself that the voice has already faded from significance and become the fossil.

Funny thing about fossils is they are our connection to the past. Without that record of what came before us, we could continue believing that the world began at a false place and has always hinged on humanity. But, there is much more richness to the past than that. And, like the richness of your poem's ideas and imagery, mystery and loneliness that stretches through time immemorial. Perhaps loneliness is the greatest connector of all.

This is a lovely lyrical and visual poetry feast, Gram. A bit on the sad side in ways, but then, as ever, the voice is a symbol of promise and hope when possibility is embraced.

[gram linski]

thanks Eilis, there was a bit of disembodied ghost-like quality to the poem , that being lost or found depending on perspective, and your thought about our presence impacting, however small, was straight to the heart of the poem , that insignificance of being in the black drunk of night but like butterflies wings causing future earthquakes, thanks for the great review, I really appreciate your continual reading and support of my slightly mad excuses for poetry, lol,

[Eilis]

Well, Aristotle did say, no great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness. So, great...or is it simple...minds recognize and embrace the madness coming at them. Haha. You're welcome, Gram.

[gram linski]

haha, aye us pioneers have always, been touched by the madness of the moon , tis a grand thing, thanks again