Monday, December 26, 2005

Hard Call

(response to Michael Parker's December 7 call for poems in reaction to a photo of Mammatus clouds)

These decisions that come
hard as a whore's breath,
fast as a fall face-down
onto an unforgiving walkway.
My never born son's curled fetal
body lies hammocked in multiples
in the Mammatus clouds hanging,
like guilt, over my cowering rooftop.
They remind me that one slide-trombone
moment can mean either a uterus
sucked dry as an old sock or
a newborn's long screaming ride
down to a mother's quiet lullaby
and bluebells, yet to be picked.


Mammatus are pouch-like cloud structures and a rare example of clouds in sinking air. Sometimes very ominous in appearance, mammatus clouds are harmless and do not mean that a tornado is about to form; a commonly held misconception. In fact, mammatus are usually seen after the worst of a thunderstorm has passed. For more information, read HERE


didi said...

oh I see this poem is already taken.

disregard comment on myspace.



Pris said...

we've written, so you know by now that this poem isn't taken and isn't anywhere but on my blogs.

Michael Parker said...

This is an exceptional poem, Pris! I love it. I hope D. picks it up to be published.

Pris said...

Hi Michael
Thanks! It's one of those subjects that I never written about. One direction and it's too maudlin, the other and it's too strident.

Geoff Sanderson said...

P - you got it just right in this poem; neither maudlin nor strident. It's clear-headed and sad all at the same time, with a wonderful use of words; you will gather that I quite like it! G.

Pris said...

Thanks, G. I appreciate..I just wrote you, so you should have it by now.

Ellen M Johns said...

Yes Pris, this is superb. The metaphor of the trombone is top class.

Pris said...

Thanks, Ellen...sometimes I don't even know where these images come from...was struggling with that line and poof , there it was.