*IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT* Poetry24 is now taking a rest, with a view to reopening, possibly, in the New Year. A BIG thanks to you all for giving the project such enthusiastic support!

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

Rising tide

Well this is the good life for sure,
up to our waists in waiting, a game of patience.
Nothing's new - I've seen Cold War,
the American dream, whatever that is,
the hate of race riots, shootings, the poor
of New Orleans washed away, ignored.

But I wish they hadn't called it Harvey,
that was my husband's name.
He wouldn't have stood for sitting around,
he'd have filled his head with a ten gallon hat,
got out before he drowned.

More like Hurricane Noah, something biblical.
Funny, I felt it in my water. For a long time
I'd thought I was going under, but ate my grits,
held my head up for another day.
That last infection might have sent me
but as my momma used to tell me:
It's not your turn until the good Lord says.

Still, I'm not used to sitting here in wet clothes,
helpless and in confusion ... yet.
I said to Pearl, I said, we didn't invite this deluge,
but we'll do what we always do - sit tight
and let it all wash over. We're at home
in our comfortable armchairs. Nothing is inevitable.
I miss my shows. The TV stopped working
when we were only paddling. Gert's given up
her incessant knitting, taken to wringing her hands.

I tell my son when he calls: They told us to stay here.
That was the plan. Some plan, he says. I say:
Better here than up on the roof, shown on the news
waving and dying. So undignified

© Clare Kirwan

The story behind the photo of assisted living residents submerged in water

Clare Kirwan was a co-founder of Poetry24 but has been dormant for the last couple of years like a hibernating dormouse / volcano... you choose

1 comment:

  1. For one, I'm very glad you're out of hibernation, Clare. I love your poetry.