Tuesday, February 7, 2012


My lute cracked
when I saw the memory
of your beloved face
echoed in the river.
She still plays the same old songs,
but now with a rasp,
a smoke-and-gravel hue,
the grief of flamenco.

Our dream child
is a tattered maid now, her lullaby
twisted by our fate
as a basket-weaver binds the rushes
that grow along the riverbank
in weeping, boggy strips,
the low lament
of the SoleĆ”.

Rachel Westfall
February 7, 2012


Kat Mortensen said...

This is beautiful, Rachel!

Love the smoke-and-gravel hue,
the grief of flamenco".

I've always liked that word, "lament".

Scrappy Wolf said...

Wandering souls in search of another...Run with the wolves ;)

christopher said...

(((Rachel))) I love your muse who seems to love mine. I was led to an odd reply - bet you've seen something like it before somewhere. The joy in this play of song between us is beyond special. I am very happy you are in my life.

Judicial Conflict

You just can't be serious,
serving me paper.
My paternity
is more than in doubt.
She's a fine young wolf and me,
a mangy badger.
Sometimes it's like that
and besides, I'm flippin' broke.
This whole thing's a joke.

RachelW said...

That's awesome, Christopher. I don't know how you got from here to there, but it's neat anyway!

Far Beyond The Ridge said...

i really found this lovely rachel.
but for some reason my mind fought to read the beginning as
My lute cracked
when I saw your
beloved face
echoed in the river.

sorry for tryin to hijack your poem