Poetry

‘Freedom’ and other poems by Charlene Pierce

By: Charlene Pierce

Photo by Rowan Heuvel

Freedom

Flock
and rise as one.
A chorus of wings breathe
the sound with diastolic release
and soar.

###

Breath of Life

Fragmented, scattered
like dust hidden
in the corners, coating the spaces
of unreachable places,
the joy we once knew.

My life,
your life,
cupped in His palm
like seeds of dandelions.
He breathes His life into us
and we fly like dust,
we fall like rain
to begin a life
once shattered
now new.

###

Lottery Ticket

A lottery ticket in my wallet
I know it’s not a way to profit.
Still, I dream of the big deposit.

I could hop a plane, spontaneous
travel, see all the world’s splendidness
and drop the work-a-day dreariness.
Never again worry about it.

I would buy my kids a house with pools,
send my grandkids to best private schools
release grandma from nursing home rules
all living the best, not counterfeit.

I wouldn’t let it go to my head.
The ability to give and spread
happiness, help others get ahead
that’s a blessing, an honor to wit.

Haven’t checked the numbers, odds bestow
chances of one in two million or so.
And thus to not look, is to not know
so I can keep hope in my pocket.

###

His and Hers

His was wide and soft
upholstered with lush dark Chenille
the color of mud.

Hers, if you could call it hers,
was simple and light, an antique
from the old country, passed from generation
to generation, from daughter
to daughter, made solid
of oak to withstand
the frequent moving,
the rotation of people constant
in their use.
She would sit, occasionally, on the edge,
her back straight, her feet lightly touching
the ground with a cup of tea, at the table while
dinner simmered or while dishes soaked or that quiet
time just before everyone came home.

His was new and never moved, always placed
in the living room with the best view
facing the window.

Robins built nests
of twigs and pine, to insulate
their young, and searched
for dinner just below the grass.
Sparrows flitted
from tree to tree, jumped
from branch to branch guarding
their young on the other side of the glass.

His reclined back, all the way
back. He could lie almost flat,
head elevated enough for easy
breathing, legs propped up
and stretched out.

His chair, his spot
where no one else sat.

Categories: Poetry

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