Close but never quite within reality’s
clenched hand as it squeezes too tightly,
pressure builds on the interior
It’s morning walks through city streets
smell of exhaust from diesel fuel
burnt and sent to the atmosphere as it mingles
with your oxygen … breathing, resting on clouds above
like a saturated sponge forming a shroud
Carbon turns skies a dingy grey like tables
at a local café, grease clings to tattered curtains
hung many years ago by hands now riddled with
rheumatism … unyielding
Coffee has sat too long, the aroma’s acrid
scent lingers in your nostrils for hours
as fluorescent fixtures blink intermittently, making you uneasy,
reaching for the Sunday paper, examine the
veins on your hand that rise and pulsate like
tiny rolling rivers
clenched hand as it squeezes too tightly,
pressure builds on the interior
It’s morning walks through city streets
smell of exhaust from diesel fuel
burnt and sent to the atmosphere as it mingles
with your oxygen … breathing, resting on clouds above
like a saturated sponge forming a shroud
Carbon turns skies a dingy grey like tables
at a local café, grease clings to tattered curtains
hung many years ago by hands now riddled with
rheumatism … unyielding
Coffee has sat too long, the aroma’s acrid
scent lingers in your nostrils for hours
as fluorescent fixtures blink intermittently, making you uneasy,
reaching for the Sunday paper, examine the
veins on your hand that rise and pulsate like
tiny rolling rivers
Musty memories open floodgates to central
recollection … as you take another
sip of bitter coffee
Posts
Wonderfully set !
ReplyDeleteLiked how your words traced memories ..
A dark poem, but not all musty memories are pleasant.
ReplyDeleteA wonderful succesion of images.
ReplyDeletevery intriguing poem... the veins, rising and pulsating like
ReplyDeletetiny rolling rivers - you capture this sadness of loneliness so well
Thanks for visiting, ladynimue.
ReplyDeleteMike, I have some vivid memories of diners and old cafés in New York and I suppose that is where this came from.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Viv, I wasn't sure if, it worked that well.
ReplyDeleteThere is such sadness in loneliness, Claudia.
ReplyDeleteSomehow your trip to the cafe, is both specific and yet Universal. Many times memories raise the same sense for me, the dark clouds and dingy appearance of a place that may never again exist, except within,
ReplyDeleteElizabeth
Elizabeth, I honestly didn't know this prompt would take me to such darkness. Memories are a funny thing.
ReplyDeleteThis is a dark piece...but also universal. The veins in my hands make me self conscious, checking them out while drinking bitter coffee? Ew... Well done, Pamela!
ReplyDeleteSeems quite a few went to the darkside with this prompt, Brenda.
ReplyDeleteI like how you evoked musty cafes and reflect that in the hands and bitter coffee. It made me think of dinginess in old places that have the stain of long years.
ReplyDeleteThere are many of them in this world, Irene.
ReplyDeleteA graphic, but poetic description. Don't want to go to that place!
ReplyDeleteThanks Marian, there are loads of them in every city.
ReplyDeletePamela, you have really captured 'musty' in this poem@! Sensually evocative.
ReplyDeleteThanks much, my friend, Mary.
ReplyDeleteThis is an amazing poem full of smells and descriptions that put me right there drinking that bitter coffee. Wonderful!
ReplyDeleteThanks Judy, I was surprised I went in this direction with the prompt.
ReplyDeleteI like the way the images progress, from diesel fuel to carbon skies to greasy curtains to coffee, the colors that you hint at through the other senses. A good exploration of "musty minutes".
ReplyDeleteThanks Mr. Walker:)
ReplyDeletemusty indeed Pam....nice words again
ReplyDeleteThanks Wayne, Cheers!
ReplyDelete