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Dust Bowl
by Timothy SomersHot winds blow me down
in folded grasses of the plains
I trudge in fear,
miraged,
collaged by
dried and pasted
hair and bone
of faces
somewhere near my heart,
from somewhere light and long ago
these faces that I never knew before my fall
my awkward slighting fall on twilight
knees of faltered rise.
Cinder.
Cinder light and cinder
burned of brightly colored
twists of thread
of fates cast out
upon the fire,
last traces of desire.
Hyacinth floating city at horizon
never touched the curve of earth
pursued, not seeming ever near,
unless I'm falling down,
unless I'm falling down
becoming dust. 08/01/2009 Posted on 08/01/2009
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Elizabeth Hoadley on 08/01/09 at 09:55 PM The imagery places a responsibility on the reader to feel what the writer does. That is the true goal in poetry and in this work it is done quite well. Thank you Timothy. |
| Posted by Allison Smith on 08/02/09 at 12:55 AM I enjoyed the flow of this, your lines push me on to the next lines juts to see whats happening. A great write. Into my favourites. |
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