Out of the Trenches


She's an old garden,

wild, carelessly unkempt,

nervously unconcerned,

with traces and scars

from former gardeners,

prone to anger, ferociously active;

unwarranted rest her greatest fear


but since I don't know when

the prime suspect,

that powerful noblewoman;

sensed behind the upper-case windows

through her gentle harshness,

her gray bird's nest hair

a spider garret of reindeer lichen

and documents,

her breath full of horse handling,

glaciers and 3 o'clock tea


There's something uncanny British about her


She's walking about her younger, painless body;

a brooding lioness 'round a camp fire

in the savannah night


I sustain myself on fermented fear


I take myself not seriously;

just a meager merger of exercise and poetry,

old Jehovah's Witnesses studies

thrown about down 1970's diaries,

in the disappointment of the no-show

of the expected 1975 Armageddon,

in spite of the always trusted fate of death,

hidden in the sound of the lawn mower


The day regains its early July consciousness,

crawling across the threshold of reason

with the morning hours in the rucksack,

me close behind

out of the trenches of self-analysis,

doors creaking in my mind

Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2022-07-03 at 11:34

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Another of your fabulously entertaining poems, Ingvar.
I remember those who were disappointed by the nonexistent 1975 Armageddon, and the somewhat earlier Arthurian Society.
Blessings. Allen

(Do I detect a typo in the line "She's walking about her younger, painless body;"? I sensed it aught to have been 'talking'.)