Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Wanderer

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

5 comments:

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
rick