In Honor of National Poetry Month

A poem by one of my favorite poets, Sharon Olds:

The Talk

In the sunless wooden room at noon
the mother had a talk with her daughter.
The rudeness could not go on, the meanness
to her little brother, her selfishness.
The eight-year-old sat on the bed
in the corner of the room, her irises distilled as
the last drops of something, her firm
face melting, reddening,
silver flashes in her eyes like distant
bodies of water glimpsed through woods.
She took it and took it and broke, crying out
I hate being a person! diving
into the mother
as if
into
a deep pond--and she cannot swim,
the child cannot swim.

~~Sharon Olds (from Strike Sparks)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And, one of my own in the same vein.....


Stale words
in stagnant pools
sink into a lifeless sea of drivel.

I’ve said it all before.
You turn a deaf, defiant ear;

Ruffled feathers
beat me back--
a safe distance.

You dance around
the sting of my words.

You’ve yet to really hear.

~Pam Patterson