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My grief is a hollow
Sometimes inside.
Sometimes out.
A feeling that rises.
A spot on the chair, waiting for me to sit.
Other times, it darts, wild attack from around the corner.
Hell from on high. M e r c i l e s s.
Me sobbing — hideous, maudlin.
It has tender moments, too.
The gentle prodding of memories during sleep.
Soft purrs. Voices. Scents. A taste on the tongue.
It’s true what Daddy says.
The dead N E V E R leave us.
Colleen Sohn
I wonder
if the earth,
when frozen and unyielding,
scented by the two notes of acrid exhaust and wood smoke,
intends for the thaw to be so glorious.
For every pore to release
days and days of sweetness in one heady gasp,
and for me,
in perfect time,
to venture outside in communion.
I perform my daily ablution,
rhythmic thump and whoosh of scrub brush on concrete bird bath,
a delicate scattering of seed,
while uttering Hello to all that moves and breathes.
My feet gladly squelch
loam that gives and gives –
honeyed
muddy
soft.
It is a good question.
Colleen Sohn
Copper light spooling into dusk
and we walked in the crisp of it.
Woolen collar turned
to warm the cool of my neck,
hand tucked in his coat pocket
and laced perfectly together.
We kissed under a thrill of neon
to the zooming of cars.
All before the rain fell.
Colleen Sohn
Tags: My Poetry
There was a man, old and withery, yet shirtless and cocky as a surfer.
If a surfer carried a pipe and wore a crown of daisies, that is.
In between rabid pacing and punching at an invisible bag, he screamed.
Screamed about the awful torment of the sea.
How she doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.
Roaring and raging and destroying sand castles and
swallowing men whole,
some spat back within an inch of their lives,
countless others never seen again,
save a shoe, laced and protecting a pristine foot.
And boats! His favorite tug gone to toothpicks,
with her never stopping for one god-damned second,
just going and going and going.
Such malice!
Yet, the whole time, the sea was smooth as glass.
Colleen Sohn
p.s. Written with a nod to Bukowski
That first sip of liquor
nibble of cake
bead of blood under the sharp blade
is our remembering.
Remembering
that first time
we belonged; we were perfect; we had a modicum of control.
That first sip of liquor
nibble of cake
bead of blood under the sharp blade
is our forgetting.
Forgetting
that we hover on the periphery,
flawed and powerless.
The second sip,
the second bite,
the blood sluicing,
is our punishment,
our loathing,
our attempt at escape.
We do not see
that we do belong
to ourselves
to the world
that we are every wild glimmer of forefathers and mothers,
the stars, the mountains, the bees.
So we sip and chew and cut (and more),
receding into the ether that was once us,
that was once love,
only to awaken,
with a renewed sense of failure
that we are NOT
those who belong
those who are perfect
those who command.
We are the cast-offs,
clasping meager suitcases, crestfallen,
while the golden ones, in their gleaming gilded chariots,
depart for greener pastures,
smiling.
And so we crumble into nothingness,
hidden amongst the din
of the multitudes that are not us
and sip and bite and cut anew.
Colleen Sohn
...
Alternate title – “After Watching Too Much Mad Men“
Tags: My Poetry
