A. E. F.
April 20, 2008 1:52 am PoetryThere will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart,
The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust.
A spider will make a silver string nest in the
darkest, warmest corner of it.
The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty.
And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall.
Forefingers and thumbs will point casually toward it.
It will be spoken among half-forgotten, whished-to-be-forgotten things.
They will tell the spider: Go on, you’re doing good work.
Carl Sandburg
Stumble it!
October 2nd, 2009 at 11:46 pm
good poem, however too much use of the word “rust”. Perhaps omit “rusty” in the first line? Eg-
There will be a gun on the wall, sweetheart,
The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust.