“Poetry is ordinary language raised to the nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.” —Paul Engle
by Terry Stephen Driscoll
I guess it’s all over. Our marriage has failed.
I’m sorry I’m not what you thought you had nailed.
No need to get dirty in times of divorce,
You say you want everything; Baby! Of course!
You take the house the car and the cat,
The paintings, the silver, our West London flat,
The jewelery, the dinner set, all of the chairs,
the bookcase, the curtains, the French earthenware.
I’ll have the memories, the feelings, the thoughts,
Of days when we’d smile at each other’s retorts.
When words from the heart could tie up the tongue,
And ballads of blue need never be sung.
Go on, go ahead, help yourself, be my guest,
To the silicon implants that hold up your chest.
To the wardrobe of labels of last season’s taste,
The cool Diamante, the pearls and the.... Read more
Copyright © 2002 Terry Stephen Driscoll