Snapshots

Meshes of the Afternoon by Maya Deren

The bread is stale

The flowers are dead

I look in the mirror and see

my mother

The roses are red

So is the blood

The mirror is cracked

The pill is swallowed

The flowers are lovely

The bread is round

The people are celebrating

The door is open

There is no bread

The flowers are pressed

The knife is at the wrist

The baby cries

The baby cries

The baby cries

 

The dirt is on the grave

The mirrors are covered

Where is the key?

Swallowed  by grandmother

The stairs are endless

The phone is silent

The music has stopped

I stare at the key

The bread is stale

The flowers are dead

I look in the mirror and see

my mother.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Bits of Inspiration: Maya Deren

Mr. Jones

At his door I rang the bell
then rang again so he could hear
I saw his form across the room
He cautiously walked near
He fumbled with the lock
and with a smile he let me in
I set his meal down on the counter,
asking how he'd been
Just like every week he said,
"Well, I'm still here, you know
But seems I get a bit more weak
and increasingly slow!"
He laughed and shook his head
and rubbed his hands through sparse, white hair
He started coughing, reached out
for support, leaned on a chair
And then I saw his eyes
and knew his sadness, grief, and pain
Through the milky film of cataracts
his tears fell unrestrained
He told me of the road trips
and adventures with his wife
She had died the year before
It seemed another life
A convertible of royal blue
was never long in park
They'd jump inside and drive for miles
to Vegas for a lark
"Nowadays I cannot see
to drive it down the street
so it sits right there in my garage-
idle, empty, neat
I apologize for my complaints
I know that youth can't last
But never did I think that I
would get so old so fast."

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Wed. With Peggy, It's In the Eyes