Poetry Gong - Poem 17
Still Life: Umbrella Blown Inside Out
At night, the Perfect Rain becomes Rain that Lets the Farmer Sleep Deeply, knowing that the good work is done, and that tomorrow brings rest because the fields will be drinking deeply.
..............................- - - Chris Blanchard, Rock Spring Farm, Iowa
The wind whistles through chinks
in our armor. Not one of us can carry
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Every once in a while a poem arrives with no return address, no note from weary relatives saying, "Please take this poem in and give it a home," no luggage, no name tag. Nothing. It just shows up. And I guess it is to me to make sense of it.
Labels: clean and tidy, family, home, poetry gong, rain, wind
posted by jillypoet @ 9:57 PM
5 Comments:
Wow. You've really outdone yourself here. Talk about something that invites re-reading...
Yes, this is truly great. You have such a talent for the surreal.
so just how many of these poems show up unattended? enough to share?
i love the first lines of this: "The wind whistles through chinks
in our armor. Not one of us can carry
a tune. "
Fantastic dreamlike work, Jill.
You're up for the next quatrain at the PoCo. The philtre awaits ...
haunting in all the right ways...like the wind, the poem deposits words like dust on my skin
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