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Left Behind

by Maureen Glaude

Feet, scarves, shoulders
elbows, pushing by me
as one unit
dabs of hues from every palette
marking the blur push whirr
twirling swirling in
forward then reverse
in their frosted labyrinth.

On a roundabout,
the kind in childhood
I always fell off,
trying to mount,
the others are spinning
beyond limits;
I can’t get on,
I am not old.
I can’t catch up.
I'm merely weak.
How important is this hegira?
Do I really want
to fall in line?
Not one stops
to extend a hand.

Figures barely talking,
wind-up human dervishes, flushed,
performing a strange choreography
in the wake of the fresh
tidal up-turn
of their giant snowball globe
a crystal womb.
Or tomb?
Fluttered flakes
fill their sky. Hiding their
resplendent hues.

Whether their journey ends
whether it is governed by purpose,
clearly it is only theirs;
only for the strong.

Rotations behind
I struggle, paling fast.

In variation of a theme
on Keats’ Grecian Urn,
they’re trapped
in a forever following
of an unattainable destiny.
A circle whose ends cannot ever
meet. And one for which
I cannot pass initiation.

No dream, no fantasy, this.
A reality
of my Christmas fever.


Posted on 12/22/2005
Copyright © 2021 Maureen Glaude

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 12/22/05 at 08:47 PM

Powerful analogy!

Posted by J. P. Davies on 12/23/05 at 04:07 AM

Bravo, well said. I myself am taking this christmas season off the pressure cooker and telling each and evry memeber of my family how much they mean to me. Seems more imporatant.

Posted by Paganini Jones on 12/23/05 at 12:40 PM

Powerful imagery in this. I particularly like the likeness to figures following each other forever round the urn.

Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 12/23/05 at 12:58 PM

Walking in shopping malls this time of year is very much like a feverish whirling dervish kinda dance. Good capture. I imagine even more chaotic when one isn't feeling 100%.

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