The Empty House
As a means of catharsis, I have been writing poetry again after years of not doing so. This poem is still a little rusty, but I think not bad, given the hiatus.
Clink of keys, and creak open the door
Into a soup of salty, heavy air.
Hot, steaming light through windows
Casts a mocking grey about the room
All stark, all heavy, all dense.
But there is a ball of furry joy
With black, liquid eyes looking at me.
CLINK
Away we go.
The air outside is no better
Taller ... as tall as the sky, and
Wide as the horizon,
The long, drawn-out sigh of August.
And then we are back again.
SLAM!
The onomatopoeia of our lives:
CRACK! SLAM! CLINK! BAM!
Wrack! Slock! Fwock!
The unalloyed joy, the liquid-eyed
Unconditional love ---
Bemused when I leave, overjoyed when I return --
Laps up my gift.
I speak words
They leave my mouth
But they hang in the air
Unheard, unlooked for
Like dust on a Saturday morn.
Even machine conditioned air cannot move them
Hanging in the air, suspended
Unheard, unlooked for
And there they stay, even when ...
I lay down my head and surrender to sleep.
Clink of keys, and creak open the door
Into a soup of salty, heavy air.
Hot, steaming light through windows
Casts a mocking grey about the room
All stark, all heavy, all dense.
But there is a ball of furry joy
With black, liquid eyes looking at me.
CLINK
Away we go.
The air outside is no better
Taller ... as tall as the sky, and
Wide as the horizon,
The long, drawn-out sigh of August.
And then we are back again.
SLAM!
The onomatopoeia of our lives:
CRACK! SLAM! CLINK! BAM!
Wrack! Slock! Fwock!
The unalloyed joy, the liquid-eyed
Unconditional love ---
Bemused when I leave, overjoyed when I return --
Laps up my gift.
I speak words
They leave my mouth
But they hang in the air
Unheard, unlooked for
Like dust on a Saturday morn.
Even machine conditioned air cannot move them
Hanging in the air, suspended
Unheard, unlooked for
And there they stay, even when ...
I lay down my head and surrender to sleep.