ALL THE MIRRORS ARE EMPTY

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

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.

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. 

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

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.

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

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. . . .