The Bouquet from Bingo

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IapCharon
Posts: 17
Joined: 13 Jul 2013, 06:08

The Bouquet from Bingo

#1 Post by IapCharon » 07 Aug 2013, 00:31

The Bouquet from Bingo

In Hospice, mother
recovers from heart attack -
sons whisper sweet nothings.

Purple iris, roses
shine inside a cellophaned
bouquet, from Bingo.

It’s May - moths
blinded by the sunset, die
by the glass window.

Stalks of stale tulip
dissolve in a green haze - water
inside the vase, yellow.

On the wall, clock hands
namaste - cicadas take over
the dark after visit.

Michael (MV)
Posts: 1682
Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57

Re: The Bouquet from Bingo

#2 Post by Michael (MV) » 09 Aug 2013, 09:34

Hi IC,


stark

the clinical juxt w/ the humane


From bingo to hospice

Mother recovers
from heart attack
sons whisper sweet nothings.

Purple iris, roses
afterglow inside a cellophaned
bouquet, from bingo

May moths
blinded by the sunset, dash
into the glass window.

Stalks of stale tulip
recede in a green haze - water
inside the vase, yellows.

On the wall, clock hands
namaste - cicadas take over
the dark after visit.


^^ liked "clock hands namaste"


A Mark Strand poem follows.


8)

Michael (MV)


"Mother and Son"

The son enters the mother’s room
and stands by the bed where the mother lies.
The son believes that she wants to tell him
what he longs to hear—that he is her boy,
always her boy. The son leans down to kiss
the mother’s lips, but her lips are cold.
The burial of feelings has begun. The son
touches the mother’s hands one last time,
then turns and sees the moon’s full face.
An ashen light falls across the floor.
If the moon could speak, what would it say?
If the moon could speak, it would say nothing.


 

 
 

 
 
 

IapCharon
Posts: 17
Joined: 13 Jul 2013, 06:08

Re: The Bouquet from Bingo

#3 Post by IapCharon » 09 Aug 2013, 19:58

Dear MV,

Thank you so very much! Your edits are spot on. Most appreciated.

IC

FrankDyer
Posts: 227
Joined: 17 May 2011, 06:28

Re: The Bouquet from Bingo

#4 Post by FrankDyer » 12 Aug 2013, 01:10

It made me think of a time I cried, not outwardly but inside. The pain of the parting grazed my heart like a knife I watched her fade away from me slowly noting my helplessness. How puny are our cellophaned parcels of dead flowers a mocking of the true event of death when we lower her into the ground. We focus on the dead flies on the encrusted windows, rub our noses at the rancid smells of mortality and wonder what use we are to the dying.

I identified with your poem, it was simplistic yet did the job. I won't offer criticism for the moment and let you settle in.

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