December 9, 2016 at 5:39 pm Leave a comment


this great house
seems to echo with
the absence of children.
though it was
the fulfillment of a long-held
dream, almost

a revelation, now
it reveals only silence

(in the long afternoons, quite often, you’ll
wander the creaking halls, stare
in storied bedrooms:  not wishing, really, to
recreate the past.  but
this absence is inarguable.)

the sound of one hand,
clapping:  once
a riddle you couldn’t solve.
Odd.  It seems quite plain, now.

Entry filed under: irony, poetry, voices. Tags: .

Sorry, some days A True Telling

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Trackback this post  |  Subscribe to the comments via RSS Feed

%d bloggers like this: