“Mommy, it hurts when you hit…..”
memento mori mire, stirred;
repairs waived by Sir Chronos.
Wrath of God downpouring, also
Blessing. Bleeding no one sees,
as I, in my chrome cradle
plug out with palms such bygone shrills….
….Howling from baby’s trumpet,
unheeded by taskmistress.
It flails, flounder in dry bed,
lapsing into coma’s cold’
weary of its deaf-mute god……
…...Few walk down dark cobblestones;
I’m snapping to, surrendering,
Resigned to greet St. Reaper:
On the other side of disgust.
Iron shroud, it takes to rolling
down Golgotha’s muddy slope.
I arrive, gag on gold toll;
Ole’ Grim, stooping, pulls it out.
Fran Hinkle
7/25/03
Author's Notes/Comments:
No, I was not suicidal at
this time, nor was palnning, or had EVER planned, to do it in this fashion---although I have made suicide attempts in the past, I no longer believe in it, nor do it.
This poem came, once again, as result of another one of my writing
"warm-ups." Just like a
runner must flex his/her
muscles before what they
do, writers have to "flex
their muscles"---a thing,
I must confess, not done
daily. Shame on me.
"Warm-ups" can bring out the strangest ideas,
can't they?
Oh, did some "cross-
wording"---at least I call it that---w/another
one of my poems, as you will see upon gracing my
portfolio.
Once again, "memento
mori" stands for a reminder---OF DEATH. And
if receiving years of systematic child abuse in
just about every way ISN'T death, I don't know
what is. This DID happen
to me.
"Warm-ups": Strange what
they bring out, isn't it?
