Echo, echo,
we do not live in a void,
Echo of the universe and the distance of time teach me it is not a bad place to be,
Echo that reflects the way life and this moment have survived,
Echo as I open myself. I speak the words and hear myself say them.
Echo of yesterday's dinner rumbling in my stomach.
Echo of a life I did know and do not want to know anymore.
Echo of what I hear and never grasp,
Echo of the ripple when the stone falls in the water,
Echo of what is the word. Is there one. Words are failing me.
Echo all around me, resonating as a choir on Christmas day, singing, rejoicing
Just for being in this unique instant.
Echo of today in the rest of my life. Will I remember the orange on the canvas?
Echo of the past living in me. Too many memories and not all easy to cherish.
Echo of the future, I do not want to speculate. Guessing is a mug’s game.
About the Creator
Jeannine Kauffmann
Poetry writer in the early morning. Poetry as a wake up call. Then later I draw lines and colours. I have a page on Instagram my art other than words although it contains words too. Titles are important to finish a piece like a full stop.
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Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford5 days ago in Fiction
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