Poetry

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Poetry

I dont' write poetry much anymore.  I find that odd, because that's all that I used to write and most of what I used to read.  Pablo Neruda, T.S. Eliot, Louis MacNeice just to begin.  Lately, while I've not felt motivated to write poetry at all, I've been reading it again and revisitng some of what I wrote a couple of years back.  I thought that I'd post a few here.  I'd love some input. 
Prolonged Winter
Shuffling through a melancholy fog,
milk and eggs on my arm and a blister on my heel,
the slush sucked at my shoes.
A flash of fuchsia pushed through the grey,
an unexpected birth from a crackin the sidewalk,
premature child of spring.
I nearly tripped trying not to crush it;
squatted, examined, and plucked it.
Not knowing what it was, I calledit “Pinkus Two-leafus,”
and clutched it to my breast.
Back at home, I put it in my favorite coffee mug;
the one with the witty saying and pencil sketch that makes me smile
even in the morning.
Displayed in the window, the flower shone a bit,
as she danced and flirted in thedraft.
Humming idly, I packed away mysweaters,
put on a pink sundress, opened all the windows.
The air felt crisp and green.
Sleeping that night was easy at last,
wrapped up in blankets, cocooned in the knowledge
that spring would come again.
Waking, I stretched languorously,
and padded to the room where thetiny pink whisper
sagged, frozen by the wind.
Bitter diamonds crushed the frail blossom.
The two proud leaved were shriveled and wrinkled;
crone’s hands offering an apple.
The wind cackled and moaned through the blinds.
I eyed the sky warily on my way to the garage,
and unpacked three thick sweaters.


Loss
My son, Roland, was a wonderful blessing to our family.  He lived for 30 hours.  I wrote this shortly after we went home from the hospital.
Lying awake, counting ceiling tiles.
There are thirteen rows of twenty-two each,
Which makes two hundred eighty something, I think.
Tethered to the bed, breathing pre-digested air
My life is measured, not in coffee spoons, but it
Infomercials and the rhythmic ache
In my arm, clamped upon ruthlessly again and again.

Nurses flit busily, a hive of bees in
Sensible shoes, I wilting flower.
They hum their mantra, “get some rest, get some rest.”
Pollen sacks filled with oblivion in
Handy tablet form: Percocet, vicodon.
Their smocks are garish, desperately cheerful
In the stark fluorescent light of this demented garden.

“We must control your pain,” they say
When I deny relief once again.  Jaw locked,
Fists clenched, my breasts weep the tears that I cannot.
Leave me in solitude with my pain, the throbbing
And the aches.
 Give me that gift;
The pain and the scar are all that I have to hold,
Mocking substitutes for the weight,
Thebreath, the sweet powdered smell of my beautiful little boy

There is a third, but I think we will leave it here for now.  I'd welcome any critiques/criticisms/comments/compliments