The Dark Island

A gold poetry rests under hand,
he was a painter and
a wrinkle in life.
I am his daughter.

On his lap, music
listened to my breath,
he was a sweet harmonica
smothered in vodka.
I was a drinking flower.

I scooped his footsteps with
a shovel and
slept in his smokey shadow.
In his order, a drunk soldier.
I am covered in armor.

He coughed,
and spewed me
out into a cold ditch.

One day, I painted him red,
myself blue,
and put him in a box that
blocked the sun.
I drifted with his body
along an eight year ocean,
until I became this,
a dark island.

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18 thoughts on “The Dark Island

    1. 🙂 This one felt different to write Bonnie. So glad you appreciate it! Thank you for the comment!

  1. I really loved this: it painted an amazingly vivid picture of your relationship and used some really unique imagery. One small thing though- some of the full stops seemed oddly placed and inhibited the rhythm. All in all however, a beautiful poem.

  2. Just lovely. There is pain there but I want to smile at how beautifully that painful picture has been painted here. I keep coming back to this poem. Thank you for sharing it with us.

  3. Maggie Mae, I love your writing, and this poem is so especially evocative. There’s nothing quite like that father-daughter relationship, and you painted it so beautifully. Thank you for expressing your talent.

    1. Hi Ellen! Thanks for coming by again. You are so thoughtful in your comment and I appreciate them so much! Thank you!

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