Friday, 25 February 2011

My Life ... Our Lives / Body Breach / Through the Peep Hole


                                                Poems by Nancy Snipper


 My Life… Our Lives

In the hagged dawnship
of dew-encased protection
another day overcomes the odds
beguiling us all into a routine
of untouchable chaos.





 
                                        Body Breach  

                                                     Scabbed spindly birch bough
                                                     cracks
                                                                 cracks
                                                                                cracks
                                                                                           over the plate-glass lake
                                                                                                
                                                                                            then
                                                                                
                                                                                                       dives
                                                                                       
                                                                                                                       into

                                                                                                                                the
                                                                                                                       shattersound         
                                                                                                                        of
                                   
                                                                                                      splitting  ice.                   

                                                                        Such sudden swift surrender
                                                                        comes with
                                                                             divine
                                                                                          acceptance.



                                                       Not so with my father.
                                                       His fall took the form
                                                            of a slow bend
                                                       born from a resistance of knowing
                                                          that the unknown bowel below                                
                                                                                          was waiting to engulf him.
                                 
                                                      Leukemia’s gravity weighted him down,
                                                       whittling him into a ghost of  bones.

                                                                                     And as he crumbled
                                                                                                                      bit by bit
                                                                                                        into that darkest
                                                                                                                     deep,  
                  
                                                                                                             the black hush                   
                                                                                                                       of
                                                                                                                             
                                                                                                                ushered in
                                                                                                                     his final 
                                                                                                                             bow.   


                                                      There were no stars that night.

***********************************************************
 
Through the Peep Hole

Turn the key
of the door.
With curious steps
 walk some more.

                  Ah… this is where the sobs are coming from.

            Lying on her bed
               curled up in a tiny teardrop,
                  she has locked in her loneliness

Such disturbing sounds for those she loves
to have to hear
would only be referred to the professional ear.