Poem created for painting by Artist Maria Disley, another F.A.A. Artist/Poet
The Grandaughter Cell.
Like fresh linen, her washed out face
Holds nothing back,
She cannot hide from me
Under the scent of lavender, old roses, something like Lily of The Valley,
The symmetrically styled white hair.
Ive seen her sleep,
Suddenly in a chair,
Falling into the past
Like a homesick meteor.
Horror struck in waking, at home, without him.
In realisation, she puts the kettle on.
And tells me another tale.
Absorbs me into her youth
Which feels like some kind of mitosis.
We gel and fuse through years
Of unlived experience.
I adore her life of tragedy,
Its so alive and dense with ordinary, proletariat energy.
It sparks a fire in me undeniably.
In the cemetery, she cleans his headstone
We make time to have a graveside picnic
And talk to him as if hes swigging down a glass of beer,
Oh! God, her eyes are way beyond my reach,
So blue, so cloud- filled-blue,
I have t...