Her old postural voice, homecoming even
through plucking snow; over
her climbing shoulders, growing old.

Tanned ragged like leather; Joyce;
Rationed ribs for many sons and daughters;
deflating chest for the bones are Merciless
in their lack of presence.

Naturally curved spines, lay low when it
bends or moves like gurney or a noose,
dangling cord loose and knotted. Though
caressing tick of a bottle earth, the dirt
hollers to the lungs, dragging veins of her
young sparring, the blood in her chest says
some burial or ashes.

Down or inching towards gray hymns,
Beulah Land sung together or undone;
there’ll be no torches or sticking but
final pillars of flowers, blue and green
and soaring.
I've always thought you needed to develop a more direct style.

This is good but sometimes you're poems are too wordy and collapse under the weight of their own dialect.
Poor advice.
Quote by ali.guitarkid7
WotW material I'd say.

I agree.

as to what Randy said, yes it's true you can sometimes fairly obtuse in your wording, but I think even just the diction lends itself quite well to emotion and mood and even if you can't precisely place a firm grasp on every metaphor, you still get a general sense of what's going on and it can be quite powerful in how *ahem* vague it is. though with this particular piece, knowing that Joyce Collins is your grandmother certainly helps.
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If I'm not raw, I'm just a bit underdone.