The way he barely holds up his cigarette
As if it weighs more than the memory of you,
When the wind drowns out the sun,
The smell of a quilt after a picnic,
How the guy in town fits into that tree,
And brown sugar.
When yellow birds come to hand painted bird houses,
A kid down the street finds the tire swing you made,
That story about canning pickles,
And purple buttons.
How his house has become a waiting room,
September fourteenth,
Ashes in ziplock baggys,
Rolling down hills into cucumber sandwiches,
And flowers.
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BURR
ReplyDeleteNice imagery!
ReplyDeleteQuincy, this is really cool, I love how it starts with the cigarettes and how it ends with a baggy of ashes. The words are really simple, but the pictures are really explicit, which is super awesome.
ReplyDeleteI love the first stanza of this poem and how the imagery keeps surprising me. I love the merging of the two images in the line: rolling down hills into cucumber sandwiches. Also, the way it conveys a melancholy tone in spite of some of the imagery, some of which is light. Nicely done.
ReplyDeleteI love the imagery in this poem. I love when you talk about ziplock baggys. I'm glad I'm not the only one who calls them baggys.
ReplyDeleteThe imagery and word choice in this poem is simply amazing. I like how you are talking about something without saying it directly. Nice work!
ReplyDeleteQuincy, this poem is so good. I think how you added these really, really specific images was extraordinarily effective. "How his house has become a waiting room," was the line that really struck me. Very honest
ReplyDeleteQuincy, this is amazing. I like what Ms. Herlihy said, the imagery is fantastic! I love it!!! Great job :-)
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