Today's prompts from Writer's Digest and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "color" poem, and (2) "write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind."
I mention red and black in this poem, which satisfies the color prompt. This is actually a reworking of a poem I wrote several years ago about the death of a friend. I revised it quite a bit, enough to call it "new."
I Wish the Music Could Have Reached Her
I tried to pick the songs we’d listen to
on summer evenings on your deck,
as the reds began to fade into the horizon,
soft rock mostly—Crosby, Stills and Nash,
James Taylor, Simon and Garfunkel, Carole King,
some Beatles of course.
We’d sip our beers, wave away mosquitoes,
complain about the Phillies, talk about our kids,
as the soundtrack seeped from your stereo.
Today for the viewing I brought a “mixtape”—
a CD I burned, actually—
a tasteful selection of quiet, uplifting tunes,
“Bridge Over Troubled Water,” “Here Comes the Sun,”
that kind of thing. I play it through the PA system
because I think you would approve.
Downstairs at the funeral parlor, your grandson
plays with blocks. Upstairs the grownups console
each other, and seem to like the music.
And your widow, whose eyes are haunted and vacant,
wears a red sweater and wanders through the black.
One of the elbows is beginning to unravel.
on summer evenings on your deck,
as the reds began to fade into the horizon,
James Taylor, Simon and Garfunkel, Carole King,
some Beatles of course.
complain about the Phillies, talk about our kids,
as the soundtrack seeped from your stereo.
a CD I burned, actually—
a tasteful selection of quiet, uplifting tunes,
that kind of thing. I play it through the PA system
because I think you would approve.
plays with blocks. Upstairs the grownups console
each other, and seem to like the music.
wears a red sweater and wanders through the black.
One of the elbows is beginning to unravel.
3 comments:
I love how you put the poem firmly in its setting in the opening stanza, Bruce, and the historical time in the second stanza by naming bands, the mix tape, and the intimate, laid-back tone of the direct address. The final stanza is vivid with colour and the detail of the unravelling elbow.
Thanks. It's a rather sad story. My friend had a recurrence of his cancer - pancreatic, a terrible wasting disease - and his wife never mentally recovered from his death, ending up in assisted care. My wife says we lost two friends when he died.
Such a sad story, so well told, Bruce. So sorry.
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