Homecoming
Headed out for a long walk on the cliffs of the East/West Ranch with my beautiful wife and our beautiful dogs. The wind is blowing and the sun peeks through the wild, dark clouds from time to time, illuminating the wild and wonderful world.
You can call me in for dinner, but I may never come.
*
posted by tearful dishwasher at 9:25 AM
5 Comments:
Who is she?
She looks like Patricia Neal.
She reminds me of my mother. After my father died.
She does look like Patricia Neal, huh? I always loved her.
She was so strong, so loving and broken and resolute.
And that voice...
Yep. This is Patricia Neal.
yrs-
tearful
What a great blog! I found it via Erin Monahan's post. Adding you to my links. Hope that's okay. I love the combination of art, comments, poetry in a blog!
Coming Home
You always knew it would be like this:
Hair disheveled, hanging in your face
as if blown there by a strong wind.
The windows are closed; the trees are still.
And you here you are chewing on the ends.
Face as pinched and unyielding
as Patricia Neal’s after Paul Newman
tried to have his way with her
body in that movie. And you just laid
there and let him tear at you.
Cardigan bunched up and ill-fitting
as it ever was, sleeves too short,
arms poking out, the edges
frayed, the yarn unraveling.
And you put it on anyway
as if it’d keep you warm.
Memories flying around the room
like dust and moths released
after being trapped in a closet
shut too long. And you were the storm
when he opened the door.
And you and the trees were still.
And your hair was perfectly smooth.
And you and the windows were sealed.
Pris-
Thanks. Glad you like it here. Feel free to hang around as much as you want.
Laurel-
I love this. I must owe you a great debt by now for all of these wonderful poems you keep sending my way.
This is really powerful. Well done.
Thanks-
tearful
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