Unfinished business (the poetry version)

Today I'm taking a leaf out of Neil Gaiman's book.  Well, not literally, because that would be mean and a little sacrilegious if you're a bibliophile like me.  More like I read his blog occasionally when my Facebook page shows it to me.  So, poetry from the attic, eh?  Actually I wonder if my mother kept any of the poetry/stories I scribbled on scraps of paper at the dining room table when I was a teenager.  Considering they've moved since then, probably not.  That might be a good thing.

In any case, I've got a little teaser to a poem that's unfinished in a different sense.  i.e. the rough draft is done and there've been a few edits since then, but it ain't finished till it hits the bookshelves (totally wishful thinking).  Probably not even then.  But without further ado...

Grandmother Genie

Grandmother Jeanie, on the wedding day

of her youngest granddaughter,

beckoned at the bedroom door

in the darkling hours before the earth had spun

its full rotation, bringing into reach

the pink orange dance of cold dawn rays.

Muffled in her fiery dreams,

illusions of warmth in her lover's clasp,

the girl emerged by inches, haltingly,

like a silkworm in reverse, shedding bright threads,

in the wake of that constant, knowing tapping

by that brown dry-knuckled hand.

On its hook by the door the white gown hung,

draped in lace like cobwebs

and spidered with fresh pearls,

which she knew could stand for tears

but thought so pretty it didn't matter;

in the shadows it hovered with a starchy shape,

the headless form of a ghostly bride.

“Grandmother, it's early, and you need your rest,

as frail as you've looked these passing years,

and what will the guests in the first four pews

not gossip about a hollow-eyed bride?”

The withered hand shot out a silent warning,

eyes darted to the curtained windowpanes.

“So time's short, come to the chair by the heater,

and I'll listen, your poppet once more.”

And if you want more "Grandmother Genie," find me a publisher.  Xlibris, like any commercially run independent publishing company, is fee for service, and considering the profitability of a poetry collection, I'm still in debt from Spring Cleaning.

I'll come back to the knitting once the drafting brain cells finish taking their midwinter vacation.