this is not a letter to myself
quickly the moon
is forever i say that sometimes
these ghost fingers reach
to wind the strings
and twist the whitecaps
upon the bridge; i sit at midnight
famous blue raincoat
on my lips, a thunder squirms
into my body
of stone
voice nothing, where I moved
through midsummers dead
a miracle
to keep still until it vanishes
and I am wrapped
by my hands, spinning under any flower
until fingers bear
my ghosts, eating this lady and air,
eating my skin clean to calloused-tips
to lie in songs
their poets dead, close to
stars and the sun, a mist now
they go, taking away
my tears; they die.
© 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
Written for the dVerse prompt.
Now THIS is one of my favorites! Awesome work, Lucy 😁
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Thank you! 😄
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I have seen the universe in a blade of grass, but to look beyond under any flower expands my cosmic realms to a place where infinity dwells…. your finale stanza.. for me was poetically exquisite.
” to lie in songs
their poets dead, close to
stars and the sun, a mist now
they go, taking away
my tears; they die.”
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Aww, thank you dearly Ivor.
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I like this a lot. Really good writing, Lucy. Mesmerising lyrics.
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Thanks, Susan!
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“; i sit at midnight
famous blue raincoat
on my lips, a thunder squirms
of stone”
Truly amazing!
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Why thank you!
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My heart skipped a few beats ~~ Blue Raincoat one of my favorite Cohen songs … thanks for the thrill.
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Thank you, dearest Helen!
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Beautiful flow across images!
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Thank you very much!
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This is not a letter to yourself… it is your eulogy! Your presence under the flowers and the songs of long dead poets floating with the mist over your grave!
Well done
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I love that perspective, Dwight! Thank you. 💕
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:>)
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Love these lines, “ghost fingers reach/ to wind the strings” — a testimony to the poets that have bequeathed the music that dry your tears. Just magic, Lucy!
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Thank you, Dora. You’re too kind.
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I am pleased this is not a letter to yourself: it is heart-rending! Very, very beautiful and an excellent and unusual response: I wouldn’t expect any less from you!
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Aww shucks, Ingrid. ☺️ Thank you so much.
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‘my ghosts…lie in songs their poets dead…they die.’
That last phrase is lovely.
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Thank you!
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I love this poem, Lucy! All of our poems are letters to ourselves, even if we deny it. There is gorgeous imagery in this one, especially the lines:
‘these ghost fingers reach
to wind the strings
and twist the whitecaps
upon the bridge’
and
‘on my lips, a thunder squirms
into my body
of stone’.
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Thank you so much!
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Your words mesmerize. I could just get lost in their sounds.
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Oh wow, thank you. ❤
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I think it might be a letter to everyone else… but you are certainly included.
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That might be true…
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Such a lovely flow of enjambment with thought-provoking visuals…..
“spinning under any flower
until fingers bear
my ghosts, eating this lady and air,
eating my skin clean to calloused-tips
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Thank you, Mish!
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You have such a flow with your words… And such a great use of vivid imagery!
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Aww, thank you!
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Beautiful writing. Sombre-ish
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Thank you!
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Powerful writing throughout your blog, Lucy.
I think this is my favourite so far, but it requires time for me to absorb your lyricism and imagery.
Thank you for following Sound Bite Fiction.
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