shadowed by your father\in his terrible pose\the shotgun crammed into his mouth\and inside the house the bewildered little boy\who heard the echo of that shotgun blast through every dawn that ever rose . *Tracey Herd


on the seventh day





I have no name


breaking what she gives


to fit my palm


everyday a new object


with a morning prayer


"he wont come back"


names do not matter


I wait for his coming


riding my bicycle down the stairs


challenging the paper tigers




as they are fixing my teeth

I meet her eyes

there is my name

embroidered

with each letter falling down

her cheeks


erasing her absence



Poetry by Lourdes
Read 1178 times
Written on 2006-11-15 at 22:58

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English War Veteran aged 98
What you doing riding your Bicycle down the stairs?!
That won't be very comfortable at all!!!
I think you should get one of those Stanah Stair lifts like me.
I take the women for a ride before I take them to bed - no worries about expensive petrol and no harm done to the environment!
2006-11-17


Kathy Lockhart
Oh I have an array of thoughts about this one Daughters. I am seeing complexities of relationships, renewals and losses, and death and life. You do open the doors, so many doors. Love, Mother K
2006-11-16