• broken

    by  • October 23, 2007 • Uncategorized • 9 Comments

    “The jewelery box lid is broken.”
    “I can fix it,” I told her, years ago.
    I can fix it. I just haven’t done so.

    The top of the box is a painting
    of Boston Common on a snowy day
    in another time, people walking
    across the park at twilight.

    The four pieces that framed it
    lie on top of the dresser, waiting
    to be remembered into wholeness.

    I walk by every morning without
    the glue or the intention to fix
    what is broken. Now I have gone
    so long that broken seems normal.

    How did I become accustomed
    to a life of unfinished and disrepair?
    I can fix it; I just haven’t done so.

    Peace,
    Milton

    *This is a response to the Poetry Party at Abbey of the Arts.

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    9 Responses to broken

    1. October 23, 2007 at 7:51 pm

      That is really beautiful.

    2. October 23, 2007 at 8:08 pm

      I like this a lot. It’s simple, but powerful.

    3. October 23, 2007 at 10:49 pm

      beautiful; painful

    4. October 24, 2007 at 12:42 am

      Well done poem. Good stuff.

    5. October 24, 2007 at 3:12 am

      waiting
      to be remembered into wholeness

      a beautiful sentiment – a lovely poem with just a touch of melancholy…

    6. October 25, 2007 at 3:55 am

      another beautiful contribution Milton, I always look forward to your thoughtfulness and depth.

    7. October 26, 2007 at 1:43 am

      What a beautiful poem. The last stanza really hit home.

      How did I become accustomed
      to a life of unfinished and disrepair?
      I can fix it; I just haven’t done so.

      Fixing things can get to be a wearisome job. Seems like one thing gets fixed and another is broken waiting for repair. We must persevere.

    8. October 26, 2007 at 7:06 pm

      Yeah, very nice. In my own life i have these things that I just don’t do. And the longer I don’t do them the less likely it is that they will get done. What’s one more day after 425 days?

    9. October 27, 2007 at 5:24 pm

      so wonderful. I’m a little jealous of you, Milton. a confession.
      No, you are a wonderful writer.

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