The Move
Biting, squalid, pitch hued November morn,
concrete pavement, hopscotch feet
dancing merrily o'er white chalked squares
not a care but for the moment,
haven of innocence and juvenile dares.
A wearisome mother in step with petulant brother
toting boxes and cases o'er sleet battered cobbles
clutching fiercely paltry worldly treasures
expressionless faces, resigned, automatons,
far cry from habitual good natured squabbles.
Jess, the old mutt, still chained to the fence
a token last protest from a canine suffragette,
liberated, now bouncing into the rear of the van
stacked high with all manner of household contraption
on threadbare old blankets his caninity now rests.
Three pairs of eyes peer fixedly through the windows
as the van moves cantankerously along the well worn road
old house standing stoically amongst its companion stragglers
like sporadic teeth in a gaping decayed mouth
mother sheds a tear and brother blasts the radio to lighten the load.
by Barb
You've captured all the unrest that a move can inflict on different members of a family, some hurt, some not really understanding, some indifferent, but the poor old mutt, ohhhhh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
you have managed to create some musicality without recourse to a rhyme pattern...and that is quite an achievement in its own great similitude... old house standing stoically amongst its companion stragglers like sporadic teeth in a gaping decayed mouth beaut word pic Biting, squalid, pitch hued November morn, concrete pavement, hopscotch feet targeted and lucid well written