it's just a prop

it's just a prop

a skeleton sits at his desk

tapping keys with bony digits

thinking with a skull 

that has no brain,

just a refrain of memory

when he was skin, substance

substantial

in brief

had a heart,

eyes to navigate the words

letters he could slide into place

a carriage that made hardly a sound

he had worth, he was not just

a conversation piece

a puzzle put together in ivory

a tune of his life

played in black and white

notes of ribs twisting on a swivel

arms with no muscle left

to lift a pen

less is more is less is more

by the skin of inheritance

he dies rich in verse

a spine of work swaying

back and forth

in a room where students

dissect the pieces

interpret the uncovered soul

which hides in the crevasses

of this empty body

nothing legible

just a prompt

for a biology class

in which literature

leaps from a test tube like a bad thesis

and lets science have the room---

maybe we were all born

of a rib of poetry

a rib of notion

an idea

that a room full of faces

conceptualize

capitulate

turn into black and white reason

as more becomes less becomes more

or less.

erin-cilberto

3/10/22

Reviews

[JE Falcon]

"nothing legible
just a prompt
for a biology class
in which literature
leaps from a test tube like a bad thesis" ----------- Liked it all, loved these lines.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you, JE,
j.

[knighngale]

love the imagery. I love the part of the fingertips on the desk. Very morbid.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your kind response,
j.

[knighngale]

most definately, love :D

[Chris Shaw]

The bones of us, say so little about the person we were. Shows how we were built physically but not how we ticked emotionally. When we are gone, we are gone. We will be remembered by those close to us, and maybe if our poetry is read, strangers might get a feel for the person we were and what was important to us while we lived. Thought provoking poetry dear J.

Chris

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your words, Chris,
j.

[John the Baptist]

I wonder if medical students in their dissections have ever found a feeling. I wonder if medical examiners have ever found a thought. God, how I pity materialists. To them, all that matters is matter.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I find myself entertaining similar questions, John,
thank you,
j.

[Patricia]

Woe! That’s a lot of thought into life’s writing and work in one short poem, a bit overwhelming trying to reconcile self worth, but we all do it every year we get older… the time and effort we put into our careers and our writing but the writing is our immortality like our children, like those we mentor. This is so well written, deep, dark, sad in a way… my favorite kind of poetry

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I appreciate you, Patricia,
thanks for the read and thoughts,
j.

[Relic]

National Geographic might like this one. :)

We're beings with feelings and things to say and relate. Yet when we're gone, I suppose there are some who'll cut us open, take out and weigh our organs, say hello to us by our name, then stuff us into a coffin, wondering what we must have been like when we were still moving on our own.

They won't see the poems or the reviews. They won't hear us talk. But somewhere in the ethos, maybe our writing will mean something to someone. Whether here on earth, or some other place where there's an eternity of paper to write on. :)

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I appreciate your words, Relic,
j.

[M. J. Smith]

Immortality... Of a sort, anyway. But for all the dissection, meaning will never be completely tamed and understood anymore than a wild mustang can be completely broken. Not should it be. And that is a poet's greatest legacy.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I like that analogy...thank you, M.J.
j.

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This was fantastic! You really know how to sculpt a poem from words and phrases. It might have begun as just a writer's block of marble but, whew! It's ended up looking like the Michelangelo of verse had hold of it! Your poetic prowess is truly appreciated by yours truly. I bow to the king of metaphor. Well done, sire.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I appreciate your kind review, Fabian....you are the king of description...so touche
j.

[Writergurl]

a tune of his life
played in black and white
notes of ribs twisting on a swivel
arms with no muscle left
to lift a pen

I really like this part, this write is very well written, enjoyed the imagery

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your kind words,
j.