days made of dirt
everywhere, the creases
under fingernails
in cuffs and mouths
these are the days made of dirt
like childhood
only then it was his choice
his way
done day
he walks into voices and arms
a hot shower
dirty water swirls around his toes
i watch him-
face puffed hair wild
of sleep, a lifting of corners
when we met, he played piano
thin hands making
now rough
tremble at his sides
keys made of goose down
a melodic snore
i touch his face in applause
he turns away
the song ends
charlie writes music in his sleep
(copyright 2008) c A Hughes
04.29.08
Christine,
This made me wonder if it was about your grandfather. It has the ancient sense of homage to me. Like a little girl remembering her long gone patriarch.
Annie
Well, it is about an older man but an imaginary man.
R gave me 12 titles to write out.
This is what came to me with this one.
i like your take on it.
Another title was “Dust”, which is a flash fiction piece on the other blog.
~c
what a beautiful tribute. i especially like how warmly you’ve written his return home at the end of the day.
my dad snores. it’s not so melodic.
Yeah, i don’t think meldoic snoring exists outside of this pome.
The homing is based on R and the ladies.
They jump all over him.
He loves it, especially after a hard day.
~c
Goose down .. yummy.
So serene, this piece. Makes me have warm fuzzy feelings .
Wonderful.
It was meant to be a loving piece
so i’m pleased with the warm and the fuzzy.
Thank you, Red.
~c
I thought it was based on some real event. It FELT real. I loved the warmth of it and the loving way you described ” he walks into voices and arms”. That felt like a grand homecoming at the end of a hard day.
Beautiful!
Welcome, Trisha.
i apprecaite you stopping by and commenting.
Thank you so much for one of the best comments a writer can get:
that her made up stuff reads real.
You’ve made my day!
~c