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About the Poem

Why is it so difficult to express how winter feels as you walk in the cold morning wind? I suppose it's the same reason why a touch is so complex to describe or, rather, why it can be put so simply into words. There are these paradoxes in life that need to be exposed . . . from both sides and from every angle. I believe this poem, written with more than one person, one facade, and one image in mind, is just a glimpse at how a "love" or a "hurt" can bring questions to the surface. I wrote "your" meaning me, I wrote "your" meaning him (whomever "he" is) I wrote "my" to bring all these images into my immediate world. Truthfully, this poem took some time to compose into what I felt was really real to me. After several rewrites, it just felt so true, it hit me so right, and I wanted others to feel as I did, getting kissed in a harsh corner or rolling cracked seashells in a palm. Not every image is complete but the touches I tend to give hopefully lead the reader to planes of their own. Lead them towards where they can connect to my words on their terms. "Stairwell Above Gray" is a perfect descriptor for a time in my life, here at college, where people were in and out of my days, my heart and my vision. I drew from several situations, sometimes weaving them into one to create, maybe, what I would have liked to have happen or what did in actuality. I guess, that's for me to sort out and for you to wonder.

A Few Visitor Comments

Lauren
I loved the poem, it was very well written and there was a lot of imagery. Write more!

Stairwell Above Gray

Of where I've laid my head
oceans wide with cerulean weeds, reeds and shells
ones you can hear voices through
tunnels unwalked
shoes go unworn
or worn out
from dancing and thrashing
covered, second skinned, in black, tight clothes
your head filled with faces
you swore you saw driving next to you
three weeks ago from last year
and where were we then?
Clue searching
with industrial strength magnifying glasses
prescribed when you were so lost
writhing turning images
glaring
staring back and you in the dirty glass mirror
as the mascara runs races down your flushed cheeks
and your towels show their years
of just hanging and waiting
for acceptance
of being held
your arm over my jagged shoulder, draping
across my chest
listening
so closely
for a message from ancient seashells
swept up on the shore by angered tides
and creations from my hands
and creations from my eyes
what they've been witness too
the lines
white, thick
tempting, like lying in bed without you
and not seeming moveable
or posable
standing in a corner kissing
paying no mind to the other three walls
ignoring their flaws
and screaming perfections
of your smile
your olive eyes
cliche it seems to put it down
in stairwells
of inkwells
spilling, staining
the minute grooves of fingerprint tips
flips the mode of impressions
into beautiful stark white rolls of mind paper
just running (dripping) words as I lie awake
my hand reaching down
underneath the boat's bottom
into the calm gray.

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© 1999 Lauren Rosskam Please respect the rights of the author and Passions in Poetry. If you would like to use this poem on your own web page, please contact the Author. Thank you.