I’d like to point out, before any of you thinks to suggest that I name my poems, that Emily Dickinson and e.e. cummings never named their poetry. (and yes, I realize “entitle” would be the proper word – I meant what I said) I can never really find a suitable name for any of my poems. So, they’re all Untitled – which, in a roundabout sort of way, is a title. It does make discussing my poetry with anyone rather inconvenient – they become then, “that one poem…. about light… oh, that’s half of them…” This one can have a pseudoname (and again, I realize “pseudonym” would be the proper word – I meant what I said) in order to make it easier for all of you. You may refer to it as “that poem you entered into a contest, which is potentially a big deal”… or something along those lines.
Her great uncle’s name was Friendless,
She had glasses on a string,
Her eyes grey puddles endless,
On her hand worn wedding ring.
It was given’ her by the Baker
many Harvest Moons ago,
when the morning sun would wake her
and her skin was fields of snow.
Now he’s only just a facet
of those deep grey-puddle eyes
that call with longing ‘neath those glasses
like evening sun calls moon to rise.
She loved him when her hair was auburn –
fiery as the setting sun –
when her heart was young as it was stubborn,
all young men able with a gun.
He loved her in those hellish summers
where heat drove deep into your skin.
He kissed her to drown out the bombers,
assured her with a crooked grin.
Now he rests upon her finger –
cool, well-known, and fitted tight,
like quivering hand upon that trigger
sent war-bent bullet through the night.