Polite conversation plucked
Out of ancient hat
Gatherings flicker and catch
The projector dusty
Clogged with bone and skin
Of Nature’s sons and daughters
So I picked up my rucksack
And traveled on
Faint scent of sleds, Dead Man’ Curve
Discovery borne of flashlights in
Church parking lot and coffee shop
When I returned, I found only
Twisted, burnt ashes scattered
Along the lake shore
So I picked up my rucksack
And traveled on
In the wet pulsing dryer heated air
Fingers began to dance picking locks
Opening forgotten cells
Ushering prisoners into free men
Held in place by the bowels
And Heaven-tops of the Mountains
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BluRose's Art and Words 
Packing your rucksack and moving on….I like that. Wanderings can take a toll, but they can also renew. I did much travelling as a young woman and middle aged woman. When it got tough or not pleasant or another job beckoned, I packed my stuff and moved on. when a relationship went bad and was not going to get better, I moved on. I left home when I was 18 but always kept the links and communication open to my family. Now I am living about 3 hours from where I was born and raised. I haven’t had a need to move on in a long time, I guess, getting content within and with myself. I like this poem a lot. It probably is a different interpretation than what you meant, but I like what it said to me.
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We moved home several times when I was a child. It was difficult finding my feet, a place where I felt I belonged.
Now my rucksack lays dormant in some forgotten corner. I have found my place.
Anna :o]
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Glad to hear 😀
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I have lived in a few different places too and have now settled in a place where I did not know I would be only two years ago, I can relate to the quest for home/identity I can feel in your words. I particularly like the last stanza and how it conveys the power of writing.
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😀 Thank you. What’s really cool about where I finally settled is that I can still wander close to home. Have a beautiful day
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It is true how our own interpretations seep into what we read. Even the simplest of stung words becomes complex in another persons eyes. Releasing the words trapped within the writer – that I like very much.
Thanks for stopping by my piece on the prompt 🙂
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I liken interpretation to taking in a painting or fine piece of music. If it can’t be relatable to a viewer, there is no connection between artist and audience. 😀 Have a beautiful day
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“Fingers began to dance picking locks / Opening forgotten cells / Ushering prisoners into free men”…it’s good to look back when one is at peace with oneself….
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lovely imagery!!
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I love your repeated refrain that takes us from stanza to stanza. Very nice. Peace, Linda
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Thank you for your feedback 🙂 I really appreciate it
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Ah.. all the records of life.. strewn about on the highways of life..
Ah.. now.. ah now.. where records truly no longer exist..
Ah.. ah now.. is a place
without littered
roads of
eyes of
passing
by..:)
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Beautiful 🙂
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“ancient hat
Gatherings”
Ooh, it’s a Harry Potter poem! There should be more of those. 😉
Seriously, this seems very touchy-feely (if you know what I mean) to me. Like, it’s really about your sexual expansions.
Like see, here:
“Discovery borne of flashlights in
Church parking lot and coffee shop” … I see “flashlight sin” swirling amidst the church activities and coffee shop life.
“When I returned, I found only” … And then here, this is where you say you picked one and settled down, maybe getting married.
But then here:
“Twisted, burnt ashes scattered” … There’s death, and maybe a separation or divorce.
“Fingers began to dance picking locks
Opening forgotten cells” … And this is you, learning to satisfy yourself instead of depend on relationships.
(I’m usually wrong about these things, so feel free to delete my comment.)
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No, I’m always interested in how people interpret my poems. I tend to write in a very obscure way that leaves a lot open to interpretation. When I wrote this at 7am, I was thinking about all the memories growing up trying to find my home. First was in my hometown, second was in my father’s hometown six hours away, final was about how I began to use my experiences as a way to heal and move on. Thank you for sharing your thoughts 🙂
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We all have to find our own place. Its funny, I left home and got as far as I could from my hometown, and ended up settling back an hour from where I grew up after 12 years of being gone.
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It’s all part of the excitement of Life 😀
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I see a metaphor here but it still evades me.. the image of releasing prisoners gives hope, but the ashes and what’s burnt contrasting so well… I need to read it several times.
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It’s pretty abstract retelling of how I moved from my hometown to finally settling into myself as a writer on the Eastern Shore. I’m pretty good at being quite opaque lol
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