Sandpaper, Bone And Grace

the orchids will die:
all purple and white,
then brown,
whithering into sandpaper
and bone.

outside the crow
answers the raven's call:
shrill and dying
as the last echoes fade,
as I shut Bukowski's ghost closed;
write, he says, write.

I was a poet once,
writing cracked words
between skin, sinew
and grace.

but now
what's
left?

somewhere between
shopping lists, doctor's appointments
and 3 a.m.,
I was a woman:
all legs and hips and breasts,
bone and grace.

I was,
once.

and now what's left
of orchids,
of Bukowski?

they were,
once.

who weeps for their ghosts?

who weeps for mine?

Leanne -

My god, I do.

When we're shoeboxed and labeled, it seems there's a barrier between us and that ethereal plane our poetry lives on -- what used to simply be a matter of stepping sideways now seems to require a whole ritual of fiddly locks and secret passageways. What's really frustrating is that now we probably see more to write about than ever before, and it's so much more difficult to access.

Technically, there's nothing I can even begin to suggest. This is very potent writing and very painful reading.

Pags -

This is very very good. But I would still want to tighten it up by editing out the following

"now what's left?
a wife and a mother,
a daughter and a friend.
but"

to give

"I was a poet once,
writing cracked words
between skin and sinew
and grace.

somewhere between
shopping lists, doctor's appointments
and 3 a.m.
I was a woman once:
all legs and hips and breasts,
bone and grace."

I mightt hen want to remove or replace the duplicated 'once' as well
But what do you think?

Poetic Insomniac -

I used to think wisdom could breed words profound. Now i believe my naivety was what fueled them from the start. Somewhere, some god is laughing in a wholly cosmic sense, and i don't know whether to laugh with him or weep.

Thanks, Leanne.

-----
Contemplate this on the Tree of Woe.

"Milk is for babies. When you grow up, you have to drink beer." - Arnold

Poetic Insomniac -

Pags: I'll have to give it some serious thought. Actually, i did when i wrote it but chose to keep it for fear of my point becoming muddled and sounding more stream of conciousness than i wanted to.

It needs some hacking and slashing, i know. I'll definitely take your suggestion to heart, Pags. Thank you.

-----
Contemplate this on the Tree of Woe.

"Milk is for babies. When you grow up, you have to drink beer." - Arnold

Alcuin of York -

"Contemplate this on the tree of woe" Wow! And I thought I was a pessimist.

Anyway, this poem is really stirring. Not just good - stirring. Perhaps it's because of my current state of mind (or lack of). Or perhaps it's a world-wide contagion. Personally, I find the echoes in the "...was once" lines is nice. I do think the line 5th from last could do without the "the" ("of orchids / of Bukowski"). Also, consider the last word as "mine" instead of "me".

Very nice write. I'm only sorry that I can identify with it. Then again, all lives need turning points to progress.

Alcuin

Rene' -

Well,nothing but agreement going on here for this a very potent read indeed! Maybe we all need to feel this way sometimes for I know I, too, am sitting in this same pit and wonder...where did I go and who really gives a shit??

----- LIFE: I messed up, can I have a 'do over'?

I am orbiting, I don't know where, but I am orbiting something!