The Last Friday

The Last Friday is a poetry editing group. Once a month, we post a poem and then offer feedback to the other poems on the Forum. We're a friendly but honest group. We value each other deeply and desire for every poet to be published or become famous.


    ALL THE MIRRORS ARE EMPTY

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    Dewell H. Byrd

    Posts : 367
    Join date : 2012-01-05
    Age : 87
    Location : Central Point, OR

    ALL THE MIRRORS ARE EMPTY

    Post  Dewell H. Byrd on Sat Apr 01, 2017 11:25 am

    Get out the big time pruning shears and help me hone this bramble down to a spring flower.  I'm even considering deleting the suicide stanza.  There is such loneliness among widows living alone in this valley.  My listening ear is bent to near breaking.  Dewell

    ALL THE MIRRORS ARE EMPTY

    I turn away when I pass them...
    only my pruning face is reflected
    so why should I look?

    Empty glass, antique intelligence,
    some say.

    I know, now that you are gone,
    everyone is lonely growing old alone.

    I feel like a compass without poles
    under pressure to be silent.

    Suicide is so impolite, so messy
    for the kids, family and friends.

    The older I get the deeper I dig
    into my childhood

    to avoid the twilight of my fears.
    I chase the memory of our dreams

    until a thunder full of dark snaps,
    like a link in an old rosary

    and I remember that girls turn wives,
    trees turn bare, and we wait our turn

    roaming like a cloud inside the mirror.

       -Dewell H. Byrd
    avatar
    Karen

    Posts : 306
    Join date : 2014-10-25
    Age : 64
    Location : North Little Rock

    Re: ALL THE MIRRORS ARE EMPTY

    Post  Karen on Sat Apr 01, 2017 2:39 pm

    A dark one, Dewell.  It will resonate with these lonely voices.  You are generous to lend your ear. 

    You know I am dangerous with scissors, even without encouragement.  Since you've given permission, here's my cut.

    EMPTY MIRRORS

    Only my pruning face is reflected:
    empty glass, antique intelligence.
    I am a compass without poles.

    Growing old alone,
    under pressure to be silent.
    But suicide is so impolite.

    I dig deep into my childhood
    to avoid the twilight of my fears.
    I chase the memory of our dreams.

    A thunder of dark snaps,
    like a link in an old rosary,
    reminds me girls turn wives.
     
    Trees turn bare.  I wait my turn.
    A cloud roaming inside the mirror.

    Pat

    Posts : 655
    Join date : 2011-09-12

    Cutting away. . .

    Post  Pat on Sat Apr 01, 2017 6:47 pm

    If I have misunderstood, please forgive.  Here's what I did with it:

    We Wait Our Turn

    I turn away 
    when I pass
    those growing old alone.
    I listen to a face, 
    an empty glass
    where someone once lived.
    Great loneliness.
    So many.
    You people 
    pressure me to stay polite
    to hold my silence.
    I hear you talk of suicide,
    and yet, you worry
    about the messiness of it, 
    how it would affect 
    family, friends.
    Dark snaps in an old rosary.
    Trees lose leaves,
    another season,

    and we wait our turn.


    Very dark. Listen on, Dewell, but please do not get attached to their words. Some are eagles and some are crows in their latter years.  All valuable.  Many do not have your gifts or Elsa's. You two are blessed. 

    Pat

    Posts : 655
    Join date : 2011-09-12

    Looks like I made a mess.

    Post  Pat on Sat Apr 01, 2017 6:50 pm

    Todd, can you help words to appear in my message to Dewell.  Help!!!
    avatar
    Karen

    Posts : 306
    Join date : 2014-10-25
    Age : 64
    Location : North Little Rock

    taking a crack at fixing Pat's black-on-black

    Post  Karen on Sat Apr 01, 2017 8:33 pm

    If I have misunderstood, please forgive.  Here's what I did with it:

    We Wait Our Turn

    I turn away when I pass
    those growing old alone.
    I listen to a face, 
    an empty glass
    where someone once lived.
    Great loneliness.
    So many.
    You people 
    pressure me to stay polite
    to hold my silence.
    I hear you talk of suicide,
    and yet, you worry
    about the messiness of it, 
    how it would affect 
    family, friends.
    Dark snaps in an old rosary.
    Trees lose leaves,
    another season,

    and we wait our turn.

    Very dark. Listen on, Dewell, but please do not get attached to their words. Some are eagles and some are crows in their latter years.  All valuable.  Many do not have your gifts or Elsa's. You two are blessed. 

    Pat

    dennis 2012
    Guest

    Snip snip snip

    Post  dennis 2012 on Sat Apr 01, 2017 10:18 pm

    Dewell,  It looks like a scatter shot to me.  With some pruning, mine, yours, or somebody else's would help.  Maybe with all our thoughts you can find the poem you want.  I don't like how dark you made it so I cut out that part.  It is a good poem, just a little darker that I like.

    ALL THE MIRRORS ARE EMPTY


    I know, now that you are gone,
    everyone is lonely growing old alone.

    I feel like a compass without poles
    under pressure to be silent.

    The older I get the deeper I dig
    into my childhood

    to avoid the twilight of my fears.
    I chase the memory of our dreams



    and I remember that girls turn wives,
    trees turn bare, and we wait our turn

    roaming like a cloud inside the mirror.


    avatar
    tsukany

    Posts : 609
    Join date : 2011-05-21

    Chainsaw

    Post  tsukany on Sun Apr 09, 2017 5:43 am

    Dewell

    All the Mirrors are Empty

    I chase the memory of our dreams
    until a thunder full of dark snaps,


    like a link in an old rosary

    and I remember that girls turn wives,
    trees turn bare, and we wait our turn

    Pat

    Posts : 655
    Join date : 2011-09-12

    Mirrors

    Post  Pat on Sun Apr 09, 2017 6:58 am

    Hey, Dewell, brace yourself.  A couple of us just came out of a surgery class.  We let the heart beat, but anything unnecessary had to go!  : )  It was chainsaw stuff, no snipping and clipping.

    Lucidity.  I remember you came to it one year.  

    Come again. . . .

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