Sunday, March 4, 2018

Poem: Rocking Chair

It’s always an experiment—sharing form poetry via Blogger. I sure hope this one turns out. I realize it may be different for each device, so I apologize in advance if the form doesn’t make any sense. For clarity’s sake, the first stanza is supposed to resemble a rocking chair, the second an hourglass, and the third a scattered mess.

This particular piece is inspired off a piece of furniture from my living room. Doesn’t sound very inspiring? Maybe not. But take into consideration the things in your life that hold meaning and that bring up old memories.

The other night, I was sitting in our antique rocking chair by the fireplace, listening to the popping of sap bubbles and feeling warm for a few moments in this dreadful winter. I just so happened to be reading another book (surprise, surprise), and when I got up, the rocking chair groaned, as it always does whichever way it moves. It irritates my sister to all degrees when we’re reading the Bible aloud, and I so much as lean forward or, I don’t know, rock. Heaven forbid I should rock in a rocking chair. How dare I!

That being said, this poor piece of furniture has seen a lot. It’s been with my family from Washington State to Germany to Hawaii to Kansas and more. It’s felt packing tape on the wood where it shouldn’t have been, and it’s been recovered and cleaned at least once.

To you, it may be just a chair. But to me, it’s a piece that’s shared my memories.


Rocking Chair


In memoriam of the siblings I never knew

She   creaks
like   an
old woman,
pressure
shifting on
her antique bones
as she stoops forward
                        sits back
and rises on her legs,
joints      popping.

Would that I may be so loved
        should age settle in
           like a silk layer
                of dust,
           like the sand
  sinking in an hourglass.

She first changed her dress
when I was but a child, still
playing hide and seek behind her bosom—
later my mother lost
            my sibling—
                        who
            would she or he
have been?
Now I sit and turn the pages
o’er and o’er while the fireplace
                        sweeps up
the forgotten summer days.

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