Written for David’s Weave Written Weekly
where our PoW, Marion, asks us to write a
poem of up to 20 lines in response to her
prompt – “Beneath the Surface”. Thanks for
the prompt, Marion & David! Here’s my take.
The Housewife folds napkins into swans each night,
smiles sweetly at their guests in her pearls and her role
but locked in the bathroom, out of the bright light,
she’s writing the novel that’s baring her soul.
The Boss barks in the boardroom, all thunder and spite,
a man made of sharp edges, impatient and cold
yet he kneels by his mother’s bed each Friday night,
and reads from her storybooks, now tattered and old.
The Comic delights with a joke and a grin,
providing the laughter the audience craves
then drives home in silence, too hollow within,
overcome by depression deeper than graves.
The Doctor heals with precision, his hands never wrong,
a tower of calm in the frenzied surgical ward
yet he lingers in the pub just one drink too long,
afraid of losing more patients than he will restore.
The Priest preaches forgiveness with fire and grace,
his vestments all gleaming, his face red with zeal
but whispers his doubts to the dark, empty space,
and prays to a God he believes is not real.
NAR©2026
#W3
This is “Disquises” by The Who
Everything on The Elephant’s Trunk was created by me, except where otherwise indicated. Thanks for your consideration. NAR©2017-present.
The Elephant's Trunk 