To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
Tattered Prayer Lines of my hands caress woven vintage vinyl; windows stare, colors blur like whorls in a Van Gogh sky. Yellow lines, left behind, blend with those ahead, curves of the road slip past, nowhere’s two lines swallowed by horizon’s mist. Passage of years hold barn’s sun drenched red, grey wood warping. Trees speed like blown thistles, wheels keep the road; sun streaks paint the windshield with waltzing light slivers tuned to radio violins and clarinet odes. Fingers gather in fists, quicksand cradling the road; thickness churning my breath. Tatters enfold his frame, braced within the breeze. Colors of ground meets his knees, hands positioned like church spires. Pose bent, empty ages line his brow, serenity holds his face. My eyes feel rain, like clouds that over-brim, tears mingle with smiles. Inside his ragged edges, inside his grace, I surrender to humility’s cross. Air currents brush my cheeks with bashful whispers. Calm like water sleeping, embraces. Colors painted with a languid brush on drape-less skies hold me and bleed truer with each mile. Fists once closed, unfold to touch horizon’s unchained light. His bowed silhouette a cape of hope. My soul was a bone exposed until clothed in a beggar’s tattered prayer. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas H. Smihula On Date: 2007-12-04 09:37:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Marilyn,
I enjoyed the transition from colors to life itself as you brought this to the reader in the second grouping. Just as enjoying was the movement from one type of structure to another giving the reader an additional time to ponder on the words. Wording is well selected. Great piece of work.
Thanks for sharing, Thomas