The Reckoning: A Poem and Collage

By Diane Jones

A ghost still anew, my location pondered,

Now, into the park quickly I wandered.

My feet to rest among the grass kept low,

Behind the pillars, spread a table aglow.

A world war photo quick flashes my mind,

Of poses before a young wife left behind.

My ear strains o’er hill for words of an ass,

But the draw of the ancestor ghosts, lures me pass.

The head of the table, left open for me,

yet goosebumps appear as I eye attendees.

There be Clara, Alexander, John, Fran, June, and Ed,

With Nanna, and Harry; Arline passing brown bread.

A gasp leaves my lips as these characters appear,

At an afterworld feast or my reckoning, dear?

Might these great aunts, uncles, grandparents of mine

Be offended of my dramatic prose as we dine?

Fear leaves my side, as I watch soldiers and mothers,

Next to farmers, musicians, wives, fathers, and brothers.

Regardless of trials lived once on this earth,

I’ve found a safe place; one might call a new birth.

Cigar smoke drifts to the crest of the hill,

Where loved ones raise glasses of cheer to me still.

Puck calls from the stage: Give me your hands, if we be friends,

Raising my glass to my heart: life has restored amends.

#thereckoning #aplaywrightsdinner #poem #collage

#writingduringcovid #forgetmenot #dowesmelllikeoranges

#acatregardsaking #ancestors #sdp #delawarepark

#behindtherosegarden

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