Uneasy Verse

Uneasy Verse

spouts of uneasy verse

burden my inward youth

the pong of damp books

locked deep in Granny’s

dank dirt floor basement

tomes filled with wicked              

words that seep into your

skin ripple there slowly &

rarely do they desert you

even when you grow taller

than the tales themselves

a whiff of a used bookstore

smells like the sense of

being caught filching a few

of Granny’s books barely

escaping her gangly grip

out-running her sour balm

& screech - it’s every bit a

twisted tenderness trap

– current fragrances

conjuring childhood heed

now my stanzas are written

wisely,  scent free

**

Maybe it’s from watching the runaway Netflix hit ‘Stranger Things’, the creepy vibe of this out-of-the-blue poem. Perhaps it is from the memory of my Nanny MacPherson maiming with a pumice stone, a hunk of porous volcanic abrasive rock used to remove or calloused skin: too bad she couldn’t understand I had psoriasis on my elbows. I also started to re-watch ‘American Horror Story: Asylum’. Any number of things could have leaked from my jam-packed subconscious to pull this little piece together. I had this imagine in my head, an old basement under a creaky house, full of musty books and the gate-keeper came in the form of an old crotchety woman. This in no way is a reflection of my Nan! She certainly wasn’t perfect but she was demure, even when cranky. I just remember her being stern and strict when she came to visit. Everything had to be just so; her way or the highway. She died when I was in junior high and softened a great deal. When she lived with us in the end, I remember she laughed a lot but bossed my Mama around like a drill sergeant. That had never changed. Bless her heart.  

An eerie little poem for a rainy old day.

In propinquity,
Nic