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Family Box

My family live in boxes filled with sanctified air.
One for him, one for her,
one for the cat who sleeps under the stairs.
We breathe nowhere beyond their stiff straight sides.
Illusion of oxygen is maintained by mother
who pumps up the gas, though her breathing
is shallow and always was. She's never fast,
yet maintains steady motion, just enough to keep us going,
feet located firmly on the ground.
Our fate? Never to float freely,
no way out is ever found.

17 Jun 09

Rated 9.3 (8.6) by 3 users.
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Inactive (8): 1, 1, 9, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10

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larrylark this is a different tactic for you -- here you've compressed the writing style you've perfected into something sharper and clearer -- like imagism shards which fracture the light to make our eyes squint, blink 'n stare at it --  you've made the walls thick with familial pain-body memories that seem to choke the life out of said family -- you've played the metaphor with alacrity to the end-note which trembles with faint from the lack of air -- nice writing larry 'got my writing chops' lark
 — AlchemiA

    This is hard to lump into one part, strange, you have me flustered, no way is ever found...
J G. Smiles... maybe i am tired ?
 — goeszon

serious poem, i think i get it. if you really wrote what i think you did ... this is different for you but well constructed. meaning you could for sure do this again.

good content. i like it.
 — listen

cool poem...whilst reading this, I got this picture in my head where a family dies and for some reason, is unable to reach the afterlife...sad really...though I may be way off the mark...
JK 'likin' this poem' Web
 — JKWeb

Hi AlchemiA

This is a distillation of years of feeling enstranged and it just spulged out onto the page without me seeming to know anything about it. We have so little control over who and what we are and consequently what comes out on the end of a pen.

Larry out of control Lark
 — larrylark

Go to bed goezon and wake to a new day refreshed ans scarcely able to believe your eyes at the beauty that will haunt your waking hours

Larry in dreams Lark
 — larrylark

I sure could listen and hopefully i sure will

Larry unsure Lark
 — larrylark

None of us are dead yet JK. My mum and dad are as old as the hills, I and my brothers are getting that way and we all circle round each other hardly able to breathe in rooms stuffed with echoes that resonate down the years

Larry holding back the past Lark
 — larrylark

How true , and how resonant. Melancholically fantastic, I have lived with the constant fear I may pass this on to mine, and yet it is all we are, have, become. Where is the hope in this, I know you have risen above and beyond, reading your poems. I continue to swoop and dive, longing for what i can never really have, loving what i have. melancholy about what was never, who I am not. regards ani
 — crimsonkiss

Thanks ani

I empathise so much with what you have just posted here

 — larrylark

Another post has just been lost into the ether! Theres a jinx on me this a.m. I first posted, lost it, reposted, omitting all important 10! Reposted, lost it, I am close to losing it all together! What I was trying to say is how I love the way you manage to write with such honesty, below all that wit. This is a poem that opens a window onto my own experience, not a reflecting image, but an image that offers the opportunity to understand the shared humanity of who we are. That is my wish from poetry, it examplifies how a poem works for me. Thanks you, regards ani
 — crimsonkiss

Thanks ani

i really appreciate such positive comments

 — larrylark

i think i understand your poem...
parents.... ! ( sigh )

keep going.
 — greenmantle

Hmmm...genius.  :-) 10.
 — starr

I can see why you feel the way you did about writing this poem, really. I can't say much in the way of critique or constructive feed back because I don't think it'd be worth it, all I know is that it's a stuffy little story of an isolated home, loved it.

 — Squibble

|          &nbs p;     |
|          &nbs p;     |
|  breathe   |
|          &nbs p;     |
 — noodleman

 — noodleman

growing up we named ourselves 'the people under the stairs'.
the neighbours thought we were a group home, and many of the kids
who had anal retentive parents wouldn't allow their kids to play near us.

we flipped them all the middle finger when they weren't looking.
and brother shat on their doorsteps to get back at them.

mother is heavy here.  a burden yet to overcome.  absence is the only way to survive her, when she starts sucking my oxygen.
never fast, never leaving; and never there,
but loving us just enough that we'll still need her when we're down.

good poem larry.  all the words lie perfectly still.
 — jenakajoffer

How I agree with JJ's comment - the all-pervasive mother who even keeps control of the cat (who is uncontrollable) and the air - reminds me of the last line of 'Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit' when she says that no matter how far away you get, the mother can always tug the cord. Sublime writing - quite understated which I see as a good thing in your writing larry.
 — unknown

Hi greenmantle

I do keep going on and on forever

Larry on and on Lark
 — larrylark

 — chuckle_s

Sometimes squibbles its so hard to breathe I wonder why we were given noses

Larry flared nostrils lark
 — larrylark

Striking, engrossing, excellent.
 — andyleggett

it's funny how we seemed to have lived something similar...
 — greenmantle