Waiting For The Crack


Ok, so I am not exactly sure where this came from, but it started at the end and I had to find all the words that came before the last image and this is what came out.  It’s odd how words come, images, shapes of poems.  I am actually kind of in a happy place just now, yet here I am writing about cold, the freezing of the mind and heart in hopelessness.  I guess maybe I have been near here, when the guilt and the dark, black water rises in my mind and all you can see is every last thing you’ve done wrong, all the people you have hurt and your hatred of yourself is nearly perfect and absolute.  So it comes out here, which is probably for the best.  Anyway, enjoy a little bit of darkness here and now, maybe it will make everything seem brighter by contrast.

 

 

The stars reel drunkenly,

Spinning in slow pinwheels above

The man below, staggering, boots crunching on snow

In a wasted, ragged waltz

Coat open to the greedy, grasping fingers of the wind off the lake

Careless and uncaring, not even seeing the slush streaked pavement

Lost in his own private universe of cold and regret and pain.

 

 

Faces appear and vanish in the dark shop windows

Or rise up in the black ice sheets gleaming

Under the drunken stars

All the promises of the past parading endless

Frozen inside just like tears cutting burning frost streaks

Down scored cheeks,

An endless parade of dead white people

Eyes caught forever in stares of blame, or shame, or rage

Echoes in cold rooms of a heart where winter has settled

With no spring to follow.

 

 

Chased by these cold ghosts

Remorseless phantoms of all his failures

The man jerk stumble walks like a broken marionette

In the hands of some palsied puppeteer,

Mumbling now, breath hot, words taking smoke shapes

Babbling whiskey nonsense, appeals, denials

Barking now like a dog, the sound like a gunshot

In the dead silent winter night.

 

 

Up ahead, the lake gleams

Flat, barren as bone

Ice scab over deep, dark nothing

For an instant he pauses at the shore, maybe even looks back

Wanting to see something, someone

But there is just the white and the black

And a lonely room where there is no shelter nor comfort

So he turns, steps with more determination,

Out onto the ice, walking with a purpose he could only find

In the one thing he knew how to do well

Walking, waiting, praying

To hear the crack.

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5 Responses to “Waiting For The Crack”

  1. Your poems stay with me. I have been in that place of despair too many times to contemplate and have thought of ending it all at many points in my life when hope is gone and there is nowhere else to go. You need to come from a dark place to know and understand those feelings to write about it convincingly.

    • While I would not wish those feelings on anyone, I do always hope that I can write something that will resonate with others, that can strike a chord of resemblance in the reader. I can’t say that I am glad to know you have been there too, but I do appreciate your sharing that this piece was able to connect with you.

  2. mother2rah Says:

    Matthew – I have pasted a slight re-write here. I have changed some of the tenses to make the poem more ‘now’. Just my thoughts. I can feel the poem.
    ~ Siobhan

    Stars reel drunkenly,
    spin in slow pinwheels above
    the man below, staggering, boots crunch on snow
    in a wasted, ragged waltz;
    coat open to the greedy, grasping fingers of wind off the lake;
    Careless and uncaring, not even seeing the slush streaked pavement
    he is lost
    in his own private universe of cold, pain, and regret.

    Faces appear and vanish in dark shop windows
    or rise up in black ice sheets gleaming
    under the drunken stars.
    All the promises of the past parade endlessly,
    frozen inside just like tears, cut burning frost streaks
    down scored cheeks.
    An endless procession of dead white people –
    eyes caught forever in stares of blame or shame or rage –
    echoes in cold rooms of a heart where winter has settled
    with no spring to follow.

    Chased by these cold ghosts,
    remorseless phantoms of all his failures,
    the man jerk-stumble walks, a broken marionette
    in the hands of some palsied puppeteer.
    Mumbling now, breath hot, words take smoke shapes
    babbling whiskey nonsense,
    appeals,
    denials.
    Barking now, like a dog, the sound a gunshot
    in the dead silent winter night.

    Up ahead, the lake gleams
    flat, barren as bone;
    ice scabs over deep, dark nothing.
    For an instant he pauses at the shore, maybe even looks back
    wanting to see something, someone.
    But there is just the white and the black
    and a lonely room where there is no shelter nor comfort.
    So he turns, steps with more determination,
    out onto the ice, walks with a purpose he can only find
    in the one thing he knows how to do well…
    Walking, waiting, praying
    to hear the crack.

  3. methusElla Says:

    more, please

  4. rsEnniOh Says:

    gona keep voting ’til u make MORE

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