I will admit that this poem came to be after I held a “plastic” skull I had, which I got for some kind of Halloween thing; not sure.  Anyhow, my thoughts came, I wrote them and now live with my thoughts of how I think about something.  That is ok, that is me; so be it.

 

Skull  2018-78

To hold a skull in hand and pretend

tis poor “Uric” of Hamlet fame,

But, alas, it is only bone

a dead relic of a person long ago.

A reminder of a life form that

thought, laughed and cried,

Which had features, jumped,

and danced with joy.

Now just a calcium deposit

In a grotesque way,

Pitted, holed, and cavities with

rough edges and a strange feel.

Like a picture with substance,

a reality of life itself.

What experiences, identity, features,

Of long ago hidden from view.

To touch my face and feel bone through flesh

and feel what I hold in my hand,

A non-descript top of a frame

holding me together.

 

 

Den Betts        bettsden@gmail.com