The Grandfathers

the grandfathers
their hands flinty with work
reaching down to take mine

smell of oil and liniment and wool
smoke rising
snow falling

their heavy shovels
and plaid coats
the names of old countries


~ Ralph Murre

If that sounds like an old one to any of you, well, it is.  Kinda.  In the spirit of revise, revise, revise, I boiled a fair to middlin' nineteen lines down to nine, and I think I like it even better. If I keep going this way, someday, I'll say nothing at all, and that may be best.   ~ RM

In That House

In That House

". . . any room was full       

of such choreography . . ."

~ Michael Ondaatje

each of the chambers

of his heart

held a dance

his inner ear

a symphony

the optic nerve

told of roses

and rose windows

remembering that day

in that far away

when her eyes whispered

maybe

and still

after

the quick step

of all these

yesterdays

a waltzing

and that fox

still trotting

the way she does

in that house

full of the choreography

of whispered

yes

~ Ralph Murre