Remember Me
I started up the path to your door,
I imagine myself,
The homeless one,
I push the cart,
I am heart sick and weary,
I fumble through the bits
And pieces in the bundle I carry.
Examine the tiny cotton gown that was yours,
I hear the gentle voice of my Father,
I find in a carefully folded wrapper,
The tears of my GrandMother.
On a paper, old and worn,
Yellow with time,
There is a sketch of my house,
Where we lived and loved.
It's all there.
Dissolving into memories,
Crumbs dropping to
The bottom of my pack.
So much is forgotten...
When you open the door,
You will find,
I will no longer be.
But I will leave a note for you,
With the words stitched by hand,
Blown on the wind.
Remember me.
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http://bigtentpoetry.org.
How Much is Enough"
So you asked me about enough.
What is enough?
How much is enough?
How can we find the number?
Is it enough to fill up?
Or enough to run over?
Is it just enough to still see the bottom?
Maybe it all depends on who you ask.
If you asked my kitty,
It's never enough,
What about the water-board?
Probably wouldn't take much.
You sit in my lap,
Perhaps, too much.
This question of quantity,
Is a puzzle,
Just a little bit?
Just the right amount?
Too much?
It's a question I can't answer,
You'll have to answer it,
For yourself.
How much is enough?
14 comments:
Annell...I had this very feeling yesterday on the expressway as I passed the area of my grandfathers house...so drawn to get off the road and find him not there
This is like looking at the old family photographs, feeling some relationship even though you may not know who the people in the odd clothes with their sepia period faces really are. Well-drawn, with great balance. Enjoyed it.
...I find in a carefully folded wrapper,
The tears of my GrandMother...
i liked this - makes your story so vivid and alive
Very good effort, Annell; I find it
multi-dimensional, for there is
one level on which the narrator
is passing the old family mansion,
where her father was raised,
echoing with the sounds of
grandparents long gone, and
those halcyon days there as
a grandchild--but there seems
to be a deeper level, as it you
are remote viewing, only there
as specter, in spirit, and do not
want to face the present occupants,
and there is some consideration
that you lived there too, as a
third generation occupant, and
now those halls vibrate with
alien metabolism, with the sounds
of strangers.
Both poems ~ stunning!
Both are great...and how much is enough..that is a great question...you have me thinking...and I love that...bkm
The first poem seems like a spilling out, while the second seems to be looking for some sort of filling. Just the way they hit me as they sit side by side. There is almost a melancholy feeling in the first, yet a lighter seeking tone to the second. Love what you are doing here and with your words. See you stretching, reaching and that is always good,
Elizabeth
I know you are presentng some very real quetions, eg, "What about the water-board?" and your real images of a homeless person but my 'enough' complaint is the appearance of a 'Plimsol line' on wine glasses, marking the official fill level, so close to empty one feels cheated. I want a matching Plimsol line on the price!
Remember Me brought a tear.
Your Mag is so sad that last line is haunting.....
A deep and wistful Magpie - beautifully presented.
Where we lived and loved ...wonderful words.
beautiful magpie.
I loved Remember Me so much. This season brings loved ones close in thought and memory and you described the mystery of all that beautifully.
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