Futile is the cup

sweet broken bone
china where the chip
is where rain sips

splashs in the thicket
growing tall
and growling
scratching the house
the tempest storm
of spring

flash bright the thought

ziggaurat of brick
the finger of chimney
reaching to touch
the cloud

the window panes are
thin on the top floor
the attic is full of
drumming thin
rain humming on the
flashing tin

dripping on the wreck
drifting marooned
in tall winter grass

I shiver standing
brave returned to this
sleeping grave of
memory

the rain alive beats on
the spirit strong

— Esker, May 02, 2010

About the Author

Region, Country: north ontario, CAN

Favorite Poets: Klo , .., Ida, .., Rhiannon1010, .., Pleiades, .., Valryianne, .., Ester, .., Stephanie, .., Emina Smajevic, ..., Elefentee, ..., Sommer Lyn, ..., Jasmine, ..., Rula, ...

Critiques

Esker

16 years 2 months ago

there is nothing like fresh rains

warm enough to open the window and listen not the cold winter ones that ache old bones the comforter tucked around the wind too seeping through the screen water tapping from the roof gathering in the metal here and there peaceful tranguil liquid sanctity

bunnymug

16 years 2 months ago

had to pop in to say...

i like this... "sweet broken bone china" "the finger of chimney reaching to touch the cloud" "tranquil liquid sanctity" you are so right...there is nothing like fresh rain...

Esker

16 years 2 months ago

thanks Bunnymug

in the country there were many old homes and some of the ones I grew up in are gone yet the location is the same the yard may be still there or a crab apple tree etc Memory is powerful and when Im short on material for poetry all I need to do is go back and think a while Or in modern moments take a trip to the falls or the lakefront for some inspiration Esker~