Muddy Boots

The damp earth moulded you,

two souls side by side like produce

in an aisle,

roasting Easter lamb above our heads.

There they are, she says.

It is when the coffin settles, the sculpted wood

evaporates,

the mud dries on our boots,

the alarm clock rings,

then life grabs you.

Shakes you.

Nothing stands still but the tulips

on my table. Days and hours

mingle like strangers at a party,

a place you get lost in. Moments

when nothing is relevant anymore.

It hits you again, slaps you, whispers in your ear:

you’ll never laugh again the same way as you 

did with him 

the joke seems stale now. Dry on your lips.

heavy on your heart. But you say it

you continue to say it. Believe in it.

No crowd roaring as the list

of the dead keeps growing

like our needs.

Still how your beauty wakes me

turns my pain into poetry

my Good Friday into symmetry.

I will always write

do not worry your beautiful mind

about me. I am as you say

messed up,

drinking Metaxa with too much glee

creating words you will never see.

just another poem about death

hashtag death, make it concrete,

or damp like the earth

or kill the spirit

with the typewriter

but oh, how the clicking sound

lifts my soul

closer to yours.

I wiped my boots

clean again,

ready to write poems.

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19 thoughts on “Muddy Boots

  1. I loved this, Chrissy. This was full of lines that opened like trapdoors when I stumbled into them, taking me where… Not exactly sure and that was poignantly okay… It is a privilege to witness the view through another’s heart… To hear the alarm, and awaken to a glimpse of somewhere else…

    Michael

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Well done once again, you’re a great influence in my writing and I love coming by to study you.
    I would love to see you release a collection of poetry on print.

    Liked by 1 person

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