Saturday, July 02, 2005


You arrive home
to this house, this brown
suburban house, made of crushed
autumn grass and old bottles.
I wonder if you'll notice that
the ghost in the chair isn't me,
but you rush out to play with
the dog, tossing indifferent
red and blue balls to the horizon.

The ghosts asks how your day was,
spreads lips to a grin, pretends
stones still can beat as hearts
before dying.

Ash pile at your feet, but you
don't see your trail til
you turn, and vague memories
drift of days when a flame once
roared high in your fireplace.


Michael Parker said...

Pris, I read this poem this morning and it carried with me the rest of the day, while mowing the yard and doing chores around the house. I couldn't stop thinking about awareness. Some people seem to be void of the gift, or they are just so self-centered and arrogant that they don't want to see what you have done for them, continue to do for them. It caused me to look inside, take an inventory of my actions: do I treat people as if they are mere ghosts? Do I turn their considerate words or deeds into ash and step on them? Do I recognize (and appreciate) the footprints of the many who have walked or still walk with me through this sojourn of experience?

I like this very much. Excellent work, indeed.

Pris said...

This was one of those poems that pretty much wrote itself out of what I was feeling strongly at the time. I had to edit it back..usual for me with my poems...but the basic poem is as it came out. I'm glad it spoke to you. I don't think it would speak to those who trail through those ashes. They can't see and don't think about it.