Here’s another poem I’ve written—a draft long ago, a more recent “final” version. The last poem I posted here to diabolical, Tree, was about depression. This one is about loss. I suppose most of my poetry is about grappling with difficult things. Poetry is therapy for people who enjoy using language like paint.
This one is also more traditional than Tree. It rhymes following an ‘enclosed rhyme’ structure with the first and fourth lines, and second and third lines, of each stanza rhyming—ABBA, basically.
In any case, I hope you enjoy! Poetry is not the thrust of this newsletter, but I think a little variety never hurts. As always, thanks for reading and sharing and subscribing and all that jazz, my droogies. Y’all are the best.
'The Queen' by Erik Kain
Trumpets over foggy hillsides mourn.
Church bells ring like memories
Of Caesar’s fall; of heaving seas.
The jewels and lace, too pale to adorn
The queen’s collarbone. Her face
A paler shade of grey, of chalk.
Too brittle now, she rolls to walk
From door to hall, and hall to chaise,
From chaise to bed, and off to dreams.
She sees her children dancing on the lawn.
Down at dusk and up at dawn,
Sunlight sifting through in weary, wilted beams.
The sound of bells again, she’s ripped awake
To shadows ballroom-dancing on the wall.
His face reminds her of her life, that’s all,
In every frame and photograph she takes
Down from the pegs. In tilted rows,
In drawers she leaves them flat.
Milk and sugar; saucers for the cats.
Wind catches every eve and bough,
While we drift silently from word to word,
From death to death, from lips to air.
The people have all gone down to the fair.
They move about in miniature, like promises unheard.