A Slather of Time

Generally, my poems are short, simple affairs. Recently, they’ve been growing. Successfully? I’m not sure. What do you think?

Scylla of The Odyssey/Greek Mythology


Having secured a modest slather of time,
I’d thought I pen a few words
about the falling snow, its fickle descent,
each flake, as fragile as a lost memory, silently

sliding through the morning, until finally
it finds its rest on the ceramic mushroom
in the garden or the black mailbox
where the driveway spills into the road,

but everyone writes about snow,
its grace and cold; so, perhaps, I’ll focus
on the steam rising from my coffee mug,
hot and wet, the spirits of Hades,

Odysseus’ crew, the warriors Scylla chomped
as they pulled their oars as furiously
as fear allows, and the men Charybdis consumed,
the monster’s mouth open wide,

a briney maelstrom, hell’s toothy foyer,
but all that gore, the broken bones,
would spoil this moment, the still house,
my books at attention on their shelves,

spines as straight as soldiers’,
the sun flooding through the skylight
warming the kitchen tile, and the parakeets
darting from perch to perch in their cage,

loose feathers gracing the air
like delicate flakes of snow.


3 thoughts on “A Slather of Time

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