Maskers Ball

6 comments

Genetic alterations like cleft chins and widows peaks

Clean white teeth and braces,

Blush and pink watermelon lipgloss,

Handlebar mustaches and biker beards

All for nothing now and how ridiculous.

Behind a mask there’s no way

to flash a smile of gratitude to a shop clerk

or for someone’s kindness in holding

open a door.

We look plastic.

Polarized in soundless shock.

The cranes fly overhead in t-formations

migration from and to places I never visited

And now probably won’t either

Come to think about it,

those birds I knew,

birds

where I’ve been basking in year and year outside

Without the warmth in those million year old spaced.

As sounds of the floorboards let us know

Our short winter days draw nearer

The knuckles crack in my hands

Open and closed alone

I am divided by savage time.

For Celia

6 comments on “Maskers Ball”

    1. Isn’t it so true we see only half faces…we used to say things like “see it in his eyes” or the eyes are the windows to the soul. Yeah. Maybe but if you can’t even see if the mouth is smiling, the nose is running, the cheeks have a tan – we can go into a bank with a mask on and not get shot or arrested for attempted robbery! I have to wonder if robberies in general are up in numbers. But I think about weird stuff like that so it’s likely best I stick to poetry in these instances. I’m nervous about this Wednesday and if we’re going to see violent revolts brought about by division and the people I have to disagree with primarily aren’t wearing masks so we can see their anger come across their faces.

    1. Thank you for your high praise. It’s been a rough few days, emotionally I notice by the time I realize what’s happening to me there’s so much built up…when the poetry pours out it doesn’t stop like a spigot. And in those spaces it’s very hard to tell if it’s good or not so feedback is exceptionally important. Thank you.

        1. Thank you – I appreciate your generous compliment- the best poetry I write comes from the heart. It’s where all good art comes from. I’m proud of this poem in particular.

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