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The Bag Lady


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The Bag Lady

by Camy

You can see her on a park bench anywhere

Pushing trolleys full of used up metal ware

Muttering grimly feeding pidgeons sitting there

For why ...? Who knows?

Her fulsome head travels in the clouds

Wild mystic dreams of Gods allowed

Preaching twisted myths as all her own

For why ...? Who knows?

Nervous times she spins around

Flesh drawn pale much like a clown

Rheumy eyes beget stony frown

For why ...? Only she knows

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Camy this is beautiful and poignant. I hope it's not a reflection of your present emotional state???

Bruin :wink:

Thanks, Bruin.

I found it in an old notebook I was throwing away and spent a quiet half an hour tweaking it. As to my emotional state ... I can't see myself living out of a shopping trolley: though you never really know. ;)



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Thank you Camy -- both for the poem, and for your comment to my blog entry regarding "the urban dictionary". One does not have to be "down" to write about "bag ladies". I published the following poem in my own poetry collection and in several literary magazines many years ago:


Strolling through the

barrel-lined aisles

with her ladened cart,

the prudent cognoscente

pauses periodically to

admire alimentary delicacies

in open display.

She sneers at the Spanish oranges,

which are bruised and overripe,

and cringes at the inferior broccoli --

so yellow and dry.

But her eyes alight with

discovery and glee as

she tosses aside the lid

of the last garbage can

and silences the nonsensical

cravings of her refined palate

with the simple charm of

garden greens and aged brie.

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