The Funeral Party The deflated patriarch turns his incongruous crimson tie and downcast gaze away from what has become his expanding pale-faced family now that his brother’s passed. The two men hadn’t been close since his brother wouldn’t made good on his loans. The wife has a mouth that stirs up trouble with Maud. The dim son, an uncoupled brake van, studies his tomboy sister as if bemused by this game he confuses with dodgeball. And who’s that removed woman, hands buried in pockets, gaze confronting us head-on? Her soft grey coat stands out among baggy glum sacks funereal black. What secrets would she divulge in a pub? Death will exhale its foul breath on every soul, yes, whether robust, boozy stout or broomstick sober, small or jousting with the sun. Yet off-guard we remain, gobsmacked by this visitor who makes no bones about dropping by. Don’t we prefer the Reaper appears unannounced, only to discover it’s poppycock, this being the wrong house or circumstance, poor timing, or a bleary bender. Then exits with neither child nor adult whimpering like one beneath its muscular unflappable reach, not even the anxious barking hound granted a brief stay of execution by the pound. Margo Davis This poem was inspired by the L.S. Lowry painting, The Funeral Party. View it here. When not walking off the isolation blues, Margo Davis immerses herself in the arts. Recent poems have appeared in Deep South Magazine, 50 Give or Take, Ekphrastic Review, Snapdragon, MockingHeart Review, & Odes and Elegies: Eco-Poetry from the Texas Gulf Coast. A three-time Pushcart nominee, Margo's forthcoming chapbook will be published by Finishing Line Press.
1 Comment
Arnold Harrison
3/25/2024 10:33:51 am
Love your poetry
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January 2025
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