Poemless in Gaza

by Carmen Mason

It is Monday again and none
have come to visit me and make me feel alive and well
none swift and dazzling, catapulting into song
none sarcastic or profound, crashing for drinks and schmoozing
startling and abusing, or dancing in the dining room
with dizziness abloom or smiting, searing
to make my senses flare, rail up

(Did Samson feel all was dead,
Delilahless, all done
unless gouged eyes could gaze again
on all he would hold up to day’s
new light, take from night’s dark knowing?)

So here I sit and wait as so much moves out there that must be
felt to tell, coax and mill, then welcomed in
The night is still so quiet   I wait   I pray so that
my hand may lift to tell
my arms press out
upon the walls that
swelling, break and fold
while something bursts the door
and greedily I’ll greet
the words
then send them out to you.

Carmen Mason has written poetry and prose since she was six. She first got published in P.S. 106‘s Children’s Press. She has kept going, winning a few prizes along the way, but mainly just enjoying sharing and, while waiting for her muse to (hopefully) visit her again, telling her friends jokes by Steven Wright.