IntrusionsteemCreated with Sketch.

in poetry •  last month 


Memory intrudes
Without apology

Making the passage
Of years

Leaving me
Finger painting
In dust,

My penchant
For relevancy,

And disturbing
The order within me;

My emptiness
With your colours and scent,

The way your windows
Burn red
Long after the sun has set.

© 2019, John J Geddes. All rights reserved


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This one was more real to me. Thanks.

You're welcome, Arthur - of course, we all are moved by different things subjectively. Sometimes, I write a poem and begin crying because it touched me--other times, I feel nothing, but others are moved. The more I go on, the more sensitive I become - I always thought it'd be the other way and cursed my sensitivity when I was younger. I see now that it's a gift, but I didn't always see it that way - I felt different and just wanted to be normal - strong, silent...inauthentic, I suppose, just like the other guys I hung out with who were never moved deeply by much. Needless to say, I don't see them anymore. Perhaps a necessary price to pay.

Remember the cop friend your main character had in a story of yours (the 1930's one). Maybe the inspiration for him came from something inside you telling you that you need a friend like him?

Oh, Abe Rosen! - For sure, that's exactly right and very perceptive of you - I loved his character. You are very intuitive!