SEARCHING
Posted: Fri Apr 08, 2016 2:30 pm
In response to Bob's request. This poem was born from a homework project back in October and one I'm working on as.a future performance piece...I have never been good at punctuation but with David Campbells generous guidance it now has a very different feel...
SEARCHING
(c)]Sue Pearce 2015
“The Orchid Man, it couldn’t be!" the words, profound with grief,
conveyed throughout a neighborhood left stunned with disbelief.
Those sentiments still echo loud though months have gone astray,
and closure, brother, has been hard-that's what I seek today...
The dual highway snakes its way through pastures lush and green,
the open spaces buying time where thoughts at last can glean
the kinship only twins can share, the milestones since our birth,
a friendship born and measured by the pedestal of worth.
Nostalgia fills the moment the old mailbox springs to view,
the landmark now an empty shell, its hinges hang askew,
reflecting...I recall the written letters from the past
that we retrieved as children, precious memories unsurpassed.
I navigate the rutted drive that leads toward the farm;
the lane, though barely visible, instills a knowing calm,
as if inviting passers-by to “stop off” for a while
and reminisce of days long gone — the thought provokes a smile.
Old times begin to surface as the pepper tree draws near,
an intermingled pathos teeters thoughts, though, crystal clear,
recalling of a girl and boy exploring branches high,
and where aloft, with arms outstretched, sought rainbows in the sky.
The childhood trance is interupted-quickly cast aside...
when remnants of a wooden cross we placed the day “Patch” died
rekindles all the many joys, the giggles as we led
our priceless master “secretly” to warm our winter’s bed.
Commanded by the latter thought I turn and search in vain
the sleep-out, as I wrench aside a brier’s thorny cane,
a victim of the parched surrounds, its flowers bronzed and dead,
entwined around a wooden frame that beckons me ahead.
A shaft of sunlight strays beneath the rusted iron above,
and radiates upon a room where humbleness and love
accompanied the modest meals that followed daily chores,
like “rhubarb pie with ginger crust”, a favorite of yours.
Impulsively, I find myself excited as a child,
extracting real from fantasy through images I’d filed,
remembering the way things were — the size, the shape, the height,
the “room” beyond rekindling a childhood lost from sight.
With hesitance I turn to leave, reluctant to let go,
when there beside the pepper tree, and how I’ll never know,
an orchid, wild, in flower, rare and beautiful to see,
a message bringing closure from a spirit flying free.
SEARCHING
(c)]Sue Pearce 2015
“The Orchid Man, it couldn’t be!" the words, profound with grief,
conveyed throughout a neighborhood left stunned with disbelief.
Those sentiments still echo loud though months have gone astray,
and closure, brother, has been hard-that's what I seek today...
The dual highway snakes its way through pastures lush and green,
the open spaces buying time where thoughts at last can glean
the kinship only twins can share, the milestones since our birth,
a friendship born and measured by the pedestal of worth.
Nostalgia fills the moment the old mailbox springs to view,
the landmark now an empty shell, its hinges hang askew,
reflecting...I recall the written letters from the past
that we retrieved as children, precious memories unsurpassed.
I navigate the rutted drive that leads toward the farm;
the lane, though barely visible, instills a knowing calm,
as if inviting passers-by to “stop off” for a while
and reminisce of days long gone — the thought provokes a smile.
Old times begin to surface as the pepper tree draws near,
an intermingled pathos teeters thoughts, though, crystal clear,
recalling of a girl and boy exploring branches high,
and where aloft, with arms outstretched, sought rainbows in the sky.
The childhood trance is interupted-quickly cast aside...
when remnants of a wooden cross we placed the day “Patch” died
rekindles all the many joys, the giggles as we led
our priceless master “secretly” to warm our winter’s bed.
Commanded by the latter thought I turn and search in vain
the sleep-out, as I wrench aside a brier’s thorny cane,
a victim of the parched surrounds, its flowers bronzed and dead,
entwined around a wooden frame that beckons me ahead.
A shaft of sunlight strays beneath the rusted iron above,
and radiates upon a room where humbleness and love
accompanied the modest meals that followed daily chores,
like “rhubarb pie with ginger crust”, a favorite of yours.
Impulsively, I find myself excited as a child,
extracting real from fantasy through images I’d filed,
remembering the way things were — the size, the shape, the height,
the “room” beyond rekindling a childhood lost from sight.
With hesitance I turn to leave, reluctant to let go,
when there beside the pepper tree, and how I’ll never know,
an orchid, wild, in flower, rare and beautiful to see,
a message bringing closure from a spirit flying free.
