was a house on fire
a room — aglow
in the red REM disappearing
embers dimming into
It was a room of my own
preparation kindling split
and stacked over yesterday
news papers I’d spark
It wasn’t a games room
it wasn’t a Sunday afternoon
it was the warmth an evening hug
a Mother’s love a Father’s tug
it was winter chased sawdust erased
my room a chore a childhood whore
a mortared mantle — my father’s hands —
of gathered larch set afire
by vestal virgin of thirteen — nay,
eighteen till the fire went out —
I lay in its heat tracing it dying life
the ebb and flow a wasting light
hot — always burning — never warm
searching the smoke’s ascent for answers
for meaning learning discerning
my Room — my living room.
Submitted as part of “National/Global Poetry Writing Month” (#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo).
Today’s prompt: Day Twenty-Eight: Today’s (optional) prompt is brought to us by the Emily Dickinson Museum. First, read this brief reminiscence of Emily Dickinson, written by her niece. And now, here is the prompt that the museum suggests:
Martha Dickinson Bianchi’s description of her aunt’s cozy room, scented with hyacinths and a crackling stove, warmly recalls the setting decades later. Describe a bedroom from your past in a series of descriptive paragraphs or a poem. It could be your childhood room, your grandmother’s room, a college dormitory or another significant space from your life.
30 Poems in 30 Days
All text and photography © Dale Schierbeck
…. more of my original Poetry on EatsWritesShoots here.