Positioned

https://jhurlbert.com/

Positioned neatly on your
simple shelf of reality, so
do I sit, dangling over
the edge of that wooden

mind, beakening you to
return and enfold me in
your arms, wrap tight
the empty naked space

I have become; before
the tears fold through
shuttered eyes and fall
down into that other

world, where my weeping
will go unheard, in this
drop from great heights,
to unfeeling oblivion.

https://dversepoets.com/2019/06/18/meet-jackie-hurlbert/

Fret

Anxious, alarmed, grimly

haunted, so does the heart

fret, as time plays sorrow’s

song, demanding that the

fingers be placed just so,

across the bars of cold

memory; sounding bitter

notes of hope, reflected

in bleak, stark shadow

lines across mind’s sad,

sullen symphony. 

https://dversepoets.com/2019/06/17/quadrille-82-fretboard-of-poetry/

Wintering

as the days breathe chilled
air through the cracks of
hours, so do we settle
into the chest of Winter,

pulling close to its slow
beat, huddling to warm
moments, nestling into
hibernation of soul, and

frosted self; such is the
way of it when this
season calls and holds
us to its ancient breast. 

Decay

Slow at first, hardly seen,
the creep and chew of
decay; inexorable break
down, entropic destiny,

from which there is no
escape, whether soul,
self, frail body, or some
abandoned timber, lying

forlorn at the uncaring
feet of weather, where
time toys with edges,
plays with substance,

demands change and
disarray, as if order
were some offence,
and rotting life's true

path, where what was
is slowly brought down,
transformed into other,
yet strangely familiar,

with its crusted kiss,
pouting patiently until
there is no choice but
to surrender. 

trimmed

I trimmed my life
with small, pointed
scissors, cutting
tight to the edge

of reason - neatly
removing untidy
pieces, which had
frayed through

years of neglect,
as if, in the doing
I could restore
the illusion of

what I called
control, but which
had little power
to influence, let

alone dictate.
And so, the years
were neatened and
brought to order.

Or so I told myself.

Stability

Form shaped by years,
where place is known
and held, despite the
passage of time...

so do we recognise
and inform our spaces;
so do we create that
sense of familiarity

which breeds content,
and masquerades as
home, as something
stable and known. 

Pulled

Pulled into small places,
held by time and circumstance,
required to be something
unexpected, if not unimagined,

Such is the way and weight
of the years, which rock in
slow, determined motion,
urging me into position.