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December Poems
by Alison McKenzieThe words are behind me,
Before me,
Swirling in their coy baths,
Refusing to jump out
And dry off,
To finally come to bed.
I slumber without them,
Feeling neglected and cold,
Imagining their hands on my back,
Easing the winter tension
And allowing me to rest at peace.
Their gifts withheld,
Unwrapped,
Sitting under a tree
Whose needles keep falling,
Falling,
The fire hazards growing
Though I cannot strike a flame. 12/28/2014 Posted on 12/28/2014
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 12/28/14 at 08:26 PM Excellent analogy. Know the feeling all too well. :) |
| Posted by Leslie Ann Eisenberg on 12/28/14 at 08:44 PM spoken with the precision of a razor just unsheathed! clever, and feels so true. ;) xopk |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 12/29/14 at 06:52 PM Ah, the eternal writer's block scenario...this time done with panache and cool wit, which may, ironically, contribute to the end of the block! |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 12/30/14 at 12:04 AM Oh, that I could express writer's block so poetically. :) Very nicely done, Ali. |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 12/30/14 at 01:08 PM My impression is not one of writers block ( our own ) but rather the writers block of another's, ( perhaps a loved one ) from which we took considerable comfort in the December of our existence. Their absence not allowing us to sleep in in the usual peace to which we were accustomed. No doubt our own words comfort us in the pinch, but never quite like the words issued to us as gifts from loved ones which we can unwrap and eat them too. My other impression is that this is a fine poem, kindling, all the poetic senses. |
| Posted by Mo Couts on 01/04/15 at 03:41 PM I have never read December done so beautifully. Nicely done. |
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