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Eavesdropper on the Grass
| Open Poetry #5 |
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Eavesdropper on the Grass |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California 
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Eavesdropper on the Grass A park bench and a drinking fountain are the furniture of this hill overlooking a lake in the middle of the city. A pigeon perched and preening on the fountain, an old man on the bench. His hand, shaking a little as it lays beside him, is filled with corn. I am an eavesdropper on the grass of my mind. Wish Letty were here, poor Letty, five and the fever got her, on my knee, those baby arms wrapped, I wish I could remember her face, he said to the pigeon. The pigeon darts a look careful at the palsied, wrinkled hand. In the distance children’s voices mix with the stirring of the trees. Oh, when I was a boy the times we had racing down the path, no park then for play, no fences, hills of foxtails for socks, Mama always doing for us, we paid her no mind for socks always clean and darned. The pigeon takes one careful step then cocks its head. Young Jim’s a hot shot lawyer now, times I wiped his nose, boxed his ears good when he took to teasing baby Ann, with those blond curls. A smile creased his face and was gone. On the back of the bench now the pigeon rubes his beak and hops closer to the corn. Cora used to say I had a way with animals. Ah, that woman had a tongue on her, could bite sour or talk so sweet. Spoke her mind she did. You’ll die of booze before my hair turns gray, she said. You were wrong that time Cora, that tongue killed you first, he nodded at the pigeon. Had to drink to soften the words, I did. She took all that anger with her. He looks up as if he can see the anger floating around him in ghostly fury. The pigeon quickly takes a kernel from the hand then flies back to the safety of the drinking fountain. The children’s voices fade into the distance. The old man is not snoring as he usually is this time of day on this park bench. His head, after jerking once rests on the back of the bench, and his hand is finally still. < !signature--> In the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. (ee cummings) [This message has been edited by Martie (edited 01-26-2000).] |
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| © Copyright 2000 Martie Odell Ingebretsen - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Elizabeth Santos Member Rara Avis
since 1999-11-08
Posts 9269Pennsylvania |
So vivid a picture you portray, getting into peoples minds the way you do, so real, I feel I was eavesdropping. Great work, Martie Liz |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
What a wise way to spin a story and leave a message. Well done, Martie! Sunshine Look, then, into thine heart, and write ~~~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Liz--I guess to be a writer, you have to do a little eavesdropping. Thank you for seeing. Sunshine--Not sure how wise, but thank you so much for thinking that. |
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Severn Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-17
Posts 7704 |
Sigh... so poignant - this is just gorgeous Martie...  K'Writing sharpens life; life enriches writing' Sylvia Plath |
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Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
Wonderful poem, Martie! Always interesting and enjoyable! Denise |
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Balladeer
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-05
Posts 25505Ft. Lauderdale, Fl USA |
Geez, how you can weave a thought! This poem could be a three hour movie! Beautiful!!! |
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