I Am

 

chalk rock that crumbles

            when you step on it;

fermented grapes that sweeten

            your bitter wine;

a hard diamond with one

            disfiguring split;

the furtive thorn

            on the blackberry vine;

 

wild violets surprising

            a silent, gray wood;

a great oak waiting

            inside an acorn;

the shoulders on which

            you wept, then stood;

the star-crossed lover

            you mourn.

 

 

 

Set in Our Ways

 

Gnarled and knotted

like pine, Grandmother is

down to brass,

rather, plastic, knuckles.

Back bent from always 

tending to others, pride

petrified like stone,

 

unbending

stubborn refusal

of help from dad. Meeting

of 2 bones joined

ball and socket,

like an eye

 

roll, pain

at the mere thought

of moving, losing

independence,

scream of brakes, metal

against metal slowing, bone

against bone struggle, joint cushions

gone. Why should the elderly 

have to bend? We are set

in our ways in the end.

 

 

© Wynne Huddleston

 

Bio: Wynne Huddleston is a music teacher, a member of the Mississippi Poetry Society and a board member of the Mississippi Writers Guild. Her poetry has been published in nearly forty publications including Birmingham Arts Journal, Aurora Wolf’s New Fairy Tale Anthology, Orange Room Review, Stymie Magazine, Raven Chronicles, Halway Down the Stairs, Camroc Press Review, Calliope Nerve, and elsewhere. Visit her at http://wynnehuddleston.wordpress.com/ or https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wynne-Huddleston-Poetry/147410278647146