A Shirt’s Memoir by Toni Cross

 

 
I’m stuck up here, just flapping here- anchored to this line.
It’s sunny bright, with windy light- and I feel just fine.
My mood is right, at this desert sight- asymmetrical design.
A pretty plight, shaken, taut, tight- haunting wind wisp whine.

It’s sunny bright, with windy light- and I feel just fine.
A change in weather, sand blasted together- a wish for peace is mine
A pretty plight, shaken, taut, tight- haunting wind wisp whine.
Starched and bleached straight, long time to wait- tethered to this line
 
Drop a side down, hanging off now- flimsy grip abate
Pulling hands grab, falling free space-  lost my rope-mate
Slapped and  rolled, stuffed in a backpack-  sho’ is some date
Bump and a scuff, dumped out again- what’s with this fabric hate?

Pulling hands grab, tugging past flab- can you relate?
Long day goes on, sweat, rub, dirty grub- my stains match the tin plate
Bump and a scuff, dumped down again- what’s with this fabric hate?
Scrub and rinse, drench, splat repeat- start again with the wait


Pulling hands grab, falling free space- lost my rope-mate
My mood is right, at this desert sight- asymmetrical design.
Bump and a scuff, dumped out again- what’s with this fabric hate?
I’m stuck up here, just flapping here- anchored to this line.
 

Photo Challenge From Charles Martin

And the photo/poetry duel continues!

Check out Charles at: www.slpmartin.wordpress.com

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Music of A Human Life

This is a poem written as part of a photo challenge from my WordPress friend, Charles Martin. He sent this photo and asked me to write a poem to go with it.

He surveys his life fondly

From a distance, he reflects

Wondering at the music

All the mistakes

The joy and the pain

Blend into such a marvelous symphony

Listen to the lilting flute

That tells the tale of carefree youth

And hear the cello’s solemn resound

Rich strings of compassion tying all together

The violins of romance

Take a turn about

Flavoring the music with rich beauty and grace

Then anguish takes its turn

With crashing timpani

The orchestra breathes a sighing breath

And starts again

High and sweet

The piccolo sings of art and magic

Brassy bold the trumpets blare

Of manly glory and pride

Then once again the cello

Comes out to very front

And leads us all

To a place of gentle aged grace