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26 February 2015

fingers



One key tested
and left to dust.
The flour rang out
but the bread went bust.

The fingers were wild and toasted.
The oven warmed, the piano wasted.
The future is baked, rusted,
one finger on the button.

Ready to press.





~~~

The image above inspired this poem; it's from a writing prompt that can be found here.
Another dose of much-needed inspiration came from the imaginary garden, where real toads were playing with the idea of time as a revelator. 

7 comments:

  1. Ready to press.... a threat therein I fear.

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  2. Love this. "The fingers were wild and toasted"

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  3. such an interesting blend of music and baking metaphors.

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  4. Ha--this has the ring of a nursery rhyme, but of course, is much darker. Very clever, thanks. k. http://manicddaily.wordpress.com

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  5. I too loved this bit: "The fingers were wild and toasted".
    -HA

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  6. Yeah... I get a lot from this: "The oven warmed, the piano wasted." I struggle constantly with the time thing, time for home and motherly things, time for introspection and writerly things. The oven almost always wins out, unless I cede to ordering a pizza. You've captured that struggle in a very lovely way and I thank you.

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  7. Wow. This is gorgeous. I read it as being about a mother, one in particular is coming to mind. She is a gifted musician who is too busy doing motherly duties (like baking) to play music. And unfortunately, we mothers usually feel like a failure at that as well. Our bread is never quite right, we don't clean well enough, we make bad parenting decisions, and we just aren't good enough. I deeply feel the disappointment expressed in your poem. And as for the slight change from a piano key to a button in the closing, I read it as if you have one finger on the eject button ... the "get me out of here" button. The game-over button. The off/I'm done-for switch. ~Plum

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