Thursday, June 22, 2006

More Than You Bargained for in the Attic
By Don Iannone

A single naked light bulb dangles
weak illuminations on a shattered past,
like old cracks in the tarnished silver mirror
your grandmother used morning and night
to comb her long flowing golden hair
long before you knew her.
Faded dreams stare back at you
like haunting crimson devil eyes
from the other side of the mirror.
An ugly place you never intended to go
but found yourself crying tears of protest
like swollen rivers after a torrential rain.
Heavily fingered black and white polaroids--
stark images of colorless times
when secrets overshadowed life's mysteries
and we were even greater slaves to our past.
Hoping deep inside for buried treasure--
finding salt rubbed in sacrificial wounds
too old to bleed, too deep to heal.
Musty smells igniting off-centered memories
belonging to someone other than you
but now you, because you looked and saw them.
An old pressed flower in yellowed wax paper
dredges up the shrill piercing sound
of the 3:13 AM coal train
whose horn haunts you still
like the night your cousin died.
No ghosts, but even worse
realities too intense to bear
shaken loose from the album in your aging hands
and now forever a part of you.


Pat Paulk said...

Excellent write down someone else's memory lane!!

Don Iannone said...

Thank you Pat.

Overall, how do you feel your poetry is going?

It's flowing through me...although I struggle at times in getting new ideas for poems. Feel like some times I'm in the same rut.


Darius said...

Really takes me there. I grew up in a house with that same attic!

Don Iannone said...

Hey Darius...So this one hit home so to speak. Cool! I remember the attics in a few houses we lived in growing up. Old trunks were always intriguing.

Darlene said...

Don, your words ooze with images and visions of everyday experiences that we take for granted, and have not delved into. Reading them makes us face the reality behind these experiences, reminisce, and wonder what we missed.

You have an amazing ability to totally immerse yourself in your senses--and then put what you feel into mystical words. In turn, those words spin our emotions topsy-turvy. Reading them, I feel like somone who's lived in the same house for ages, then just discovered a door I never knew existed. But for some reason, this one leaves me with a sense of sadness, and loss. Or perhaps it's just melancholy...

anonymous julie said...

Hauntingly beautiful.

Liquidplastic said...

I like the path you are traveling here, and although I didn't have an attic, I know of that which you speak. Your images are clear and piercing --- I have always known that there is beauty in pain, indeed there is beauty in almost anything. Thank you.

Don Iannone said...

Thanks Darlene. What wonderful observations. Poetry speaks to us on an archetypal level...a deeper place than we live our surface lives. There is indeed melancholy in this poem. That too is life.

Thanks Julie. It is hauntingly beautiful. You cut right to the chase.

Thanks Amias. Yes there is beauty in all things, and all things in life are equal on the spiritual level, as you well know.

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