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Archeology resurrected our past:
pottery, tiles, occasional broach,
and bone.
Afraid we will be hard-pressed
for artifacts; if there is a we.
Didn't know silence had a ringing sound,
low and monotonous.
It isn't light, isn't dark; a filtered grey,
perhaps. White dishes faintly glow
against colorless room; blue skies,
red wine, bird song surely existed
as did leisurely horseback rides
upon mountain ridge,
zinnias plucked from garden beds,
puppy fur against my face.
How I long to play tea with my girls,
mold clay with my son, listen to my oldest
recite poetry. Feel my husband's hand
in mine.
This fallout shelter was designed for safety.
For us. Shelved are a few adventure books,
mystery, one romance. A "complete" Shakespeare.
No Bible as we'd read it cover to cover;
last chapter our least favorite...
Stored food, comforting quilts folded,
supplies stacked for six months; longer now
as I'm the only one. But not for long.
Whisper "The grace of the Lord Jesus
be with all. Amen." as I unlock the deadbolt.
Step out. Embrace Revelation.
by Margaret Bednar, September 17, 2019
This Apocalyptic poem is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Out of Standard - Gimme (Fallout) Shelter"
* The last line of the last book of the Bible is the one quoted above.
5 comments:
Margaret, your poem caused chills from head to toe. Awesome!
Oh WOW! This is brilliant, Margaret!
Oh yes, in the end those final six months I would gladly sacrifice to end it all. I wonder what future archaeologists will say.
This is great, Margaret. Just as I was following right behind you and then joined. The last Chapters are on of my favorites. No more tears, busy serving.
After those months, almost a slap in the face, your exit greeter.
..
I hereby add my praise to all of that given by others, above.
Nice capture of both the actual and the internal environment.
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