a dirge from beneath the dirt

hand printif it’s a winged effigy you want
a dirge from beneath the dirt
of someone
who tried to be someone
she died attempting to leap
through Saturn’s hoops
but the man in the moon
was not the gentleman he was purported to be
that guy plays a tripping low lit thief
stealing each day a bit more
whenever the sun grows tired
honor-bound roses
placed with tearful lips

(you know how she feels about flowers)
odiferous funeral parlors
thorny squatters on her cold headstone
with the audacity to die on the already dead
blood crimson of their selected petals
slapping her corpse with hues no longer pumping
she is most certainly a shade of soft blue by now
like the daytime sky
even at night

if she had lived her life
as a someone
her body would have been preserved
and all this could have been avoided
print back
bye, bye blackbird



9 thoughts on “a dirge from beneath the dirt

  1. the audacity to die
    odiferous funeral parlors
    a shade of soft blue right now, like the daytime sky
    and the last four lines
    wow! This is quite a dirge.
    And then there’s the handprint — amazing that you still have this! Let’s see, in 1968 I was in my junior year of college, falling in love with my later-to-be spouse! 🙂 We were making heart–prints then.
    These artifacts are imprints of who we were…all a part of us now. I have two that I treasure: a red fragile Christmas ball ornament on which Lillian is printed in white paint, in beautiful block print, by my kindergarten teacher, Miss Zivie 🙂 and a battered cardboard Santa, colored with jagged strokes of a kindergartner, with white cotton beard and cuffs hanging on by shreds, made by my brother who was nine years older than me. Treasures all. Do you have your handprint hanging in your studio? 🙂


    • Hi Lillian,
      I was having a bit of morbid fun with this – not sure if I pulled it off – it is a bit darker than it probably should be
      yes, somehow my kindergarten plaster hand print survived –
      I too, have a Christmas ball made in the 4thg grade – it goes on our tree every year – and every year I’m reminded of how my teacher never spelled my name correctly – Anne;) Your treasures sound worth treasuring:)

      Liked by 1 person

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