Today's prompt is to write a type of ekphrastic poem based on a one of the photographs chosen on the NaPo site.
I chose this one. (And couldn't resist a caption poem as well.)
The Blame Game
Says the pumpkin to the skeleton:
'Why didn't you take your chance
when you had it? I could've been
a carriage to the future, a dream
machine - instead of the root
of all your frustration
sitting here useless
looking at the bones
of who you used to be.'
Says the skeleton to the pumpkin:
'There, there, it was your
regret that chewed away
at my flesh every day.
Now hollowed out, I haunt
my own life.'
Death waits for us always
within reach: outside our door,
on the porch step, in a lush garden
on a spring day, its gaping grin
locked lovingly on our wordly cares.
Death has no concept
of aesthetics or timing.
Death lurks in all those moments
missed, chances that in a puff
of hesitation are rotten pumpkins
with jack'o' lantern teeth:
all the better to eat you with.
Death looms large and unforgiving
behind their shadows.
Death chatters ecstatically
with disaster, claims it
as a comrade, a confidante,
together they work dastardly
to trick and treat us into either
appreciation or apprehension.
Death loves scare tactics.
Death deals no spare cards;
it doesn't compromise, or care
just wants us to be ready,
to have sucked the marrow
from the bones of life and
at the end be content enough
to call its bluff.