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Phil Lindsey May 2015
Agnes McDuff collected strange stuff,
Or so the story goes:

There were old pots and pans,
String, rubber bands,
Boxes and boxes of clothes,
Newspapers, plates,
Books stored in crates,
And candlesticks lined up in rows.
Some mason jars,
Toy trucks and cars,
A model train with a whistle that blows,
Needles and spools,
All kinds of tools,
And shoes with holes in the toes.

There were tables and chairs,
Bookends in pairs,
A grandfather clock that was broke,
An old brass spittoon,
Some Sunday cartoons,
And a bicycle mssing a spoke.
Four or five hundred old wooden blocks,
Twenty-three pair of grey woolen socks,
A Christmas Edition bottle of Coke,
A board game missing directions,
A bat, a ball, a catcher’s mitt, two baseball card collections,
And a great big rusty tuba.  What a joke!

There was other stuff, but you’ve heard enough;
About what was stored in
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.

Part 2
Agnes’ attic was quite special
But not for the things it contained
But for how she had to get there
Please let me explain!

Agnes had a one-story house
A flight of stairs led to the attic.
When she opened up the door,
The light came on automatic.

It opened to a hallway
Where there was another door
Another light, another hall, and more stairs, which
Led back down to the first floor!

Where an elevator waited
To take her up again?
But it had just one button
And it was numbered “10”.

When she pushed it, it was crazy
The elevator turned upon its side,
Grew wheels and drove out on the street
For an amazing ride!

Across a long suspension bridge,
Then underneath a tunnel,
And then it went around and round
Like circling down a funnel!

It dropped upon a railroad track
Hooked onto the caboose
And followed to the roundhouse
Where it finally broke loose.

It turned around a couple times
And ran out toward the street
The elevator ran, of course
Because it had grown two feet!

It ran across an avenue,
Around a lake, and through a park
And then through another tunnel
Where it was very dark.

A mile later it emerged,
At Agnes’ house, by her front door!
The elevator walked inside,
And was on the second floor!!

So that’s how Agnes reached her attic,
Perhaps someday you’ll go there too,
Push the elevator button,
And you’ll find my story’s true!

Part 3
Agnes stood there in her attic
And smiled at all her stuff
That almost ends the story of
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.

But Agnes’ story can never end
Her smile turned to a frown,
Because you see poor Agnes
Forgot how to get back down!!
PwL  May 1, 2015
Some times I just need to laugh.  Happy May Day, HP!!
You and I were the best of friends,
We did everything together,
As the spring months came to their ends,
We waited for the start of the summer,

We had odd jobs at the start,
But the money wasn't enough,
To keep us that far apart,
we spent our time looking through old stuff,

We would listen to the old radio in the attic,
turning through the channels to find the right static,
to sing the songs of our Summer Playlist,
every song was a time we cherished,

When the Summer started to fade,
We couldn't see each other everyday,
School started and we had seperate classes,
Our classes together went by the fastest,

When the weekend came,
Back to the attic,
The radio station was always the same,
We turn it to the same summertime static,

When winter came the snow did too,
The months dragged on until Christmas came,
We went to the attic for something to do,
That radio station always stayed the same,

Some new songs were added to our Summer Playlist,
Some new memories were made to be cherished,
No matter the time of the year,
We always knew the radio was there,

To play our favorite station of summer static,
Singing our Summer Playlist songs,
Singing together in the attic,
The only place where we belong,

A New Year starts and the snow goes away,
We start hanging out again everyday,
There has been another year of being true friends,
The Seasons change and we start all over again

Back to the Attic in the summer sun,
It started off strange but then came the fun,
We'd changed over the year, but we still loved the attic,
The Radio's broken, but we still love the static.
I wrote this poem a long time ago, but I just added the final four lines tonight. I hope you like it.
Nigel Morgan Apr 2013
As he walked through the maze of streets from the tube station he wondered just how long it had been since he had last visited this tall red-bricked house. For so many years it had been for him a pied à terre. Those years when the care of infant children dominated his days, when coming up to London for 48 hours seemed such a relief, an escape from the daily round that small people demand. Since his first visits twenty years ago the area bristled with new enterprise. An abandoned Victorian hospital had been turned into expensive apartments; small enterprising businesses had taken over what had been residential property of the pre-war years. Looking up he was conscious of imaginative conversions of roof and loft spaces. What had seemed a wide-ranging community of ages and incomes appeared to have disappeared. Only the Middle Eastern corner shops and restaurants gave back to the area something of its former character: a place where people worked and lived.

It was a tall thin house on four floors. Two rooms at most of each floor, but of a good-size. The ground floor was her London workshop, but as always the blinds were down. In fact, he realised, he’d never been invited into her working space. Over the years she’d come to the door a few times, but like many artists and craftspeople he knew, she fiercely guarded her working space. The door to her studio was never left open as he passed through the hallway to climb the three flights of stairs to her husband’s domain. There was never a chance of the barest peek inside.

Today, she was in New York, and from outside the front door he could hear her husband descend from his fourth floor eyrie. The door was flung open and they greeted each other with the fervour of a long absence of friends. It had been a long time, really too long. Their lives had changed inexplicably. One, living almost permanently in that Italian marvel of waterways and sea-reflected light, the other, still in the drab West Yorkshire city from where their first acquaintance had begun from an email correspondence.

They had far too much to say to one another - on a hundred subjects. Of course the current project dominated, but as coffee (and a bowl of figs and mandarin oranges) was arranged, and they had moved almost immediately he arrived in the attic studio to the minimalist kitchen two floors below, questions were thrown out about partners and children, his activities, and sadly, his recent illness (the stairs had seemed much steeper than he remembered and he was a little breathless when he reached the top). As a guest he answered with a brevity that surprised him. Usually he found such questions needed roundabout answers to feel satisfactory - but he was learning to answer more directly, and being brief, suddenly thought of her and her always-direct questions. She wanted to know something, get something straight, so she asked  - straight - with no ‘going about things’ first. He wanted to get on with the business at hand, the business that preoccupied him, almost to the exclusion of everything else, for the last two days.

When they were settled in what was J’s working space ten years ago now he was immediately conscious that although the custom-made furniture had remained the Yamaha MIDI grand piano and the rack of samplers were elsewhere, along with most of the scores and books. The vast collection of CDs was still there, and so too the pictures and photographs. But there was one painting that was new to this attic room, a Cézanne. He was taken aback for a moment because it looked so like the real thing he’d seen in a museum just weeks before. He thought of the film Notting Hill when William Thacker questions the provenance of the Chagall ‘violin-playing goat’. The size of this Cézanne seemed accurate and it was placed in a similar rather ornate frame to what he knew had framed the museum original. It was placed on right-hand wall as he had entered the room, but some way from the pair of windows that ran almost the length of this studio. The view across the rooftops took in the Tower of London, a mile or so distant. If he turned the office chair in which he was sitting just slightly he could see it easily whilst still paying attention to J. The painting’s play of colours and composition compelled him to stare, as if he had never seen the painting before. But he had, and he remembered that his first sight of it had marked his memory.

He had been alone. He had arrived at the gallery just 15 minutes before it was due to close for the day.  He’d been told about this wonderful must-see octagonal room where around the walls you could view a particularly fine and comprehensive collection of Impressionist paintings. All the great artists were represented. One of Van Gogh’s many Olive Trees, two studies of domestic interiors by Vuillard, some dancing Degas, two magnificent Gaugins, a Seurat field of flowers, a Singer-Sergeant portrait, two Monets - one of a pair of haystacks in a blaze of high-summer light. He had been able to stay in that room just 10 minutes before he was politely asked to leave by an overweight attendant, but afterwards it was as if he knew the contents intimately. But of all these treasures it was Les Grands Arbres by Cézanne that had captured his imagination. He was to find it later and inevitably on the Internet and had it printed and pinned to his notice board. He consulted his own book of Cézanne’s letters and discovered it was a late work and one of several of the same scene. This version, it was said, was unfinished. He disagreed. Those unpainted patches he’d interpreted as pools of dappled light, and no expert was going to convince him otherwise! And here it was again. In an attic studio J. only frequented occasionally when necessity brought him to London.

When the coffee and fruit had been consumed it was time to eat more substantially, for he knew they would work late into the night, despite a whole day tomorrow to be given over to their discussions. J. was full of nervous energy and during the walk to a nearby Iraqi restaurant didn’t waver in his flow of conversation about the project. It was as though he knew he must eat, but no longer had the patience to take the kind of necessary break having a meal offered. His guest, his old friend, his now-being-consulted expert and former associate, was beginning to reel from the overload of ‘difficulties’ that were being put before him. In fact, he was already close to suggesting that it would be in J’s interest if, when they returned to the attic studio, they agreed to draw up an agenda for tomorrow so there could be some semblance of order to their discussions. He found himself wishing for her presence at the meal, her calm lovely smile he knew would charm J. out of his focused self and lighten the rush and tension that infused their current dialogue. But she was elsewhere, at home with her children and her own and many preoccupations, though it was easy to imagine how much, at least for a little while, she might enjoy meeting someone new, someone she’d heard much about, someone really rather exotic and (it must be said) commanding and handsome. He would probably charm her as much as he knew she would charm J.

J. was all and more beyond his guest’s thought-description. He had an intensity and a confidence that came from being in company with intense, confident and, it had to be said, very wealthy individuals. His origins, his beginnings his guest and old friend could only guess at, because they’d never discussed it. The time was probably past for such questions. But his guest had his own ideas, he surmised from a chanced remark that his roots were not amongst the affluent. He had been a free-jazz musician from Poland who’d made waves in the German jazz scene and married the daughter of an arts journalist who happened to be the wife of the CEO of a seriously significant media empire. This happy association enabled him to get off the road and devote himself to educating himself as a composer of avant-garde art music - which he desired and which he had achieved. His guest remembered J’s passion for the music of Luigi Nono (curiously, a former resident of the city in which J. now lived) and Helmut Lachenmann, then hardly known in the UK. J. was already composing, and with an infinite slowness and care that his guest marvelled at. He was painstakingly creating intricate and timbrally experimental string quartets as well as devising music for theatre and experimental film. But over the past fifteen years J. had become increasingly more obsessed with devising software from which his musical ideas might emanate. And it had been to his guest that, all that time ago, J. had turned to find a generous guide into this world of algorithms and complex mathematics, a composer himself who had already been seduced by the promise of new musical fields of possibility that desktop computer technology offered.

In so many ways, when it came to the hard edge of devising solutions to the digital generation of music, J. was now leagues ahead of his former tutor, whose skills in this area were once in the ascendant but had declined in inverse proportion to J’s, as he wished to spend more time composing and less time investigating the means through which he might compose. So the guest was acting now as a kind of Devil’s Advocate, able to ask those awkward disarming questions creative people don’t wish to hear too loudly and too often.

And so it turned out during the next few hours as J. got out some expensive cigars and brandy, which his guest, inhabiting a different body seemingly, now declined in favour of bottled water and dry biscuits. His guest, who had been up since 5.0am, finally suggested that, if he was to be any use on the morrow, bed was necessary. But when he got in amongst the Egyptian cotton sheets and the goose down duvet, sleep was impossible. He tried thinking of her, their last walk together by the sea, breakfast à deux before he left, other things that seemed beautiful and tender by turn . . . But it was no good. He wouldn’t sleep.

The house could have been as silent as the excellent double-glazing allowed. Only the windows of the attic studio next door to his bedroom were open to the night, to clear the room of the smoke of several cigars. He was conscious of that continuous flow of traffic and machine noise that he knew would only subside for a brief hour or so around 4.0am. So he went into the studio and pulled up a chair in front of the painting by Cézanne, in front of this painting of a woodland scene. There were two intertwining arboreal forms, trees of course, but their trunks and branches appeared to suggest the kind of cubist shapes he recognized from Braque. These two forms pulled the viewer towards a single slim and more distant tree backlit by sunlight of a late afternoon. There was a suggestion, in the further distance, of the shapes of the hills and mountains that had so preoccupied the artist. But in the foreground, there on the floor of this woodland glade, were all the colours of autumn set against the still greens of summer. It seemed wholly wrong, yet wholly right. It was as comforting and restful a painting as he could ever remember viewing. Even if he shut his eyes he could wander about the picture in sheer delight. And now he focused on the play of brush strokes of this painting in oils, the way the edge and border of one colour touched against another. Surprisingly, imagined sounds of this woodland scene entered his reverie - a late afternoon in a late summer not yet autumn. He was Olivier Messiaen en vacances with his perpetual notebook recording the magical birdsong in this luminous place. Here, even in this reproduction, lay the joy of entering into a painting. Jeanette Winterson’s plea to look at length at paintings, and then look again passed through his thoughts. How right that seemed. How very difficult to achieve. But that night he sat comfortably in J’s attic and let Cézanne deliver the artist’s promise of a world beyond nature, a world that is not about constant change and tension, but rests in a stillness all its own.
Dylan Baker Mar 2014
There is a light in the attic
that has been on for two days,
shining dim through mouse tunnels
and A frames,
through insulation,
and hidden secrets.

There is a light in the attic
that has been on for three days,
and another house burned down
last week,
about a block from here
on the west side.

There is a light in the attic
that has been on for four days.
An incandescent bulb
with the filament intact and glowing,
and it only takes one spark,
to create a fire.

There is a light in the attic
that has been on for five days.
In that hidden room,
under the crumbling linoleum
we found pages from a newspaper
dated January 4, 1950.

There is a light in the attic
that has been on for six days,
and an entire world left to explore.
Who knows what else is hidden there,
under insulation,
under floorboards,
and in cubbyholes.

There is a light in the attic
that has been on for seven days,
and I don't know
if it will ever burn out.
Mrs Robota Sep 2016
For 64 days I played a game of "Truth or Dare"
Cross my heart, beg to die
This is the confession of a broken heart
That sacrificed it's sanity for a steamy love affair

Now, I sit by the window wishing I had had a crystal ball
because it'd  have saved me a century of torment
Knowing I wasn't your knight in shining armour
It'd have saved me a century of screaming
Instead I watched Atlantis vanish
My pretty, perfect, paradise turned to ash

In my fantasies
We're still in the attic staring at it
The picture of broken love
Holding on to a hope, so cold
I should let go, but I'm paralyzed
Covered in apprehension that we'd survive
And come down from the attic
I am convinced, I'm staring at it
The picture of true love
but true love left, walked out the door
and it's all my fault and if I was honest
I'd admit it's over

Hello, unhappily ever after
Thoughts that refuse me to let me sleep
I remember when I first saw you
I ran out of words
I lost my breathe as butterflies erupted
I couldn’t resist entering the maelstrom despite the warnings
This is my odyssey
I couldn't resist the enchanting music
I thought I could take it
I wanted to be imprisoned
I never knew something so beautiful could be so dangerous

But in my fantasies
We're still in the attic staring at it
The picture of broken love
Holding on to a hope so cold
I should let go, but I'm paralyzed
Covered in apprehension that we'd survive
And come down from the attic
I am convinced, I'm staring at it
The picture of true love
but true love left, walked out the door
and it's all my fault and if I was honest
I'd admit it's over

I still want to be your ***** little secret
The thing you write your love songs about
But I'm nothing more than a wilting February song
Lost in the bitter, biting, bleak winter air
Because you were never mine
And every day I woke up alone, lying to myself
That I could live with empty arms
Instead of a soft lullaby
I scream words of a banshee

Inject me with your love, baby
Give me your love, honey
Fill me with lush tender dreams
Make cotton, candy, clouds rain sweet sugars of incandescent ecstasy
Just give me what I need because underneath I’m breaking

But in my fantasies
We're still in the attic staring at it
The picture of broken love
Holding on to a hope so cold
I should let go, but I'm paralyzed
Covered in apprehension that we'd survive
And come down from the attic
I am convinced, I'm staring at it
The picture of true love
but true love left, walked out the door
and it's all my fault and if I was honest
I'd admit it's over

You need to tell me if you feel the things I do
Your hard exterior, your indecisions are making me wonder
If it’s worth staying up until 3 am
To meet you for our  little rendezvous
But I'm tired of sleeping with the enemy
A person I can't recognize  
Take off the mask, end this façade
Stop blaming me for losing yourself
When you got caught up in someone you invented

But in my fantasies
We're still in the attic staring at it
The picture of broken love
Holding on to a hope so cold
I should let go, but I'm paralyzed
Covered in apprehension that we'd survive
And come down from the attic
I am convinced, I'm staring at it
The picture of true love
but true love left, walked out the door
and it's all my fault and if I was honest
I'd admit it's over

I admit
It's over
Our masterpiece has crumbled beneath your feet
Turned to ash, you left the remains in my chest
Because none of it was real
It was just a game of "Truth or Dare"
But I was never given the truth
So I dare you to tell me the truth
But you refuse
But that won't stop me from sleeping tonight
Without nightmares, without shadows
In my fantasies
Kagami Nov 2013
Silent crackle, tingle,
The smell of a sticky must. Floating dust in
An abandoned attic, where the rats roam and the dead skeleton of a fish
Still lies in an empty bowl of moldy rocks and plastic plants.
Yet, despite the emptiness, a girl curls up in the corner, black
Running down her face as she weeps for the things she longs for most.
She looks out the *****, broken window at the cloudy sky and imagines it
Blue. The brightest of skies with only few hints of cirrus.
A blanket on the ground and the man she loves, nothing else in sight.
The expanse of green in her head is contrasted to the rotting floorboards she lays
On, dreaming. The steady beat of Boy in Static thrumming through her headset
As she struggles not to scream and jump, finishing the job on the window
From troubled teens years before. The sound reminds her of VHS tapes,
Press rewind, take a turn and start over. But she can't, when something has changed.
The boy she knew, looking down with his hood not up, but covering his face, shielding
Himself from her. She knew he had a ***** in his head, but she just looked away. He never answered anything she asked. He was unable.
But her heart still dropped, she smiled her best. An amazing actress, fooling everyone, makeup allergy keeping her eyes dry. She just read Huck Finn as though nothing was wrong.
Now she sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry, but her mind kept wandering to that attic.

She was there again. Blankly staring at her star charm anklet. A simple blue ribbon.
And the throbbing of her heartbeat through that one spot on her thumb,
That pressure point that hurts more than anything. But one thing could be worse.
Being left. Just like the broken rocking horse in the corner and the baby's cradle
Lined with blue silk that was shoved into a box. That baby is probably dead. Just like all
Of the others who lived there, burned by the fire. Goose flesh raises, prickly
Hairs on her legs from a week of no shaving. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Bleed.
Change the song. Bleed Like Me. Perfect. She draws on the peeling walls, two hundred
Years of wallpaper and lead paint, chalk barely leaving a mark. She sketches a masterpiece.
A child that she wishes she could have. Impossibly too young, but still...
A daughter she could raise better than her mother raised her. A chance to do something right.
More than the mechanic life she has lead, empty and useless.
Confused and pathetic. Like the broken grandfather clock that ticks backwards.
Three, two, one.
Ding-****, ****-ding. Grandfather never taught me anything. He was not a wise man.
He was a fool. Knew too much and too little, no room to know what was right.
She let another raindrop escape and suddenly it began to pour. Lightning crashes as a glass
Slipper collides with the picture drawn of her dream. Thunder as she releases a
Bloodcurdling scream. "Why!?"
Why her? The pain in her back is unbearable. She slouches too much, and her eyes burn.
She is not Cinderella; her ball gown does not glitter.
Piano is her least favorite instrument, but it somehow gets to her. Small hammers
Striking her heart strings, low notes reminding her of his voice and the soft, feminine
Voices radiating, remind her of when she was young... Immortal. She has aged since then.
Too quickly. Her entire life has been a masquerade ball. Unskilled idiots dancing
Around her and stepping on her toes. Shouldering her in the stomach,
Breaking her ribs. Beats of music guide her skilled toes, swerve around falling raindrops that
Her own eyes emit. And she crashes through the floor of that dismal attic. Broken free,
But she is still trapped. The walls are charred down here.

But the walls are not painted black. They were once a mint color, green and cheerful, healthy.
Until a psychopath lit a match.
"I didn't mean to do it." It was all in her head. The house.
She set it aflame.

She sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry. It isn't worth it to stare. Nothing will change.
She is still just a girl in a glass box, being stared at and judged. Trapped and ridiculed because her eyes bleed and bless the onlookers with bad luck. It's amazing the things
That people don't know. Drifting deeper into a pit of endless darkness. A candle won't
Live down here. No oxygen to let it breathe. But one lit self portrait hangs in the air.
Years ago, drawn in pencil. Symbolic, it wants to be erased. To die.
And the ******* the page is wearing a mask. The girl in the parchment is me.
Medium length hair and a tear painted, permanent. A Parasite. Capitalized for its meaning.

A demon is running through me, singeing
My tissues, blisters on the insides of my bones. Swelled up, show through
My skin. Waves on a shore. But I am not a beach. A ***** maybe...
Still, I hate it. The hate killed whatever flowers I had left planted in my mind.
Tainted me with the horrible visions of a tear streaked face of paper mâché.
She was the one in the attic. Her whole persona
Wilted and ashen, grey. A silent movie might mask it; the hurt, I mean.
The grey lines on the screen hiding the bags under her eyes and the redness of her nose,
Get rid of the twinkling shards of glass frozen on her cheek from crying in the dead of winter.
Slip up once, and everything goes to hell. Well, I must have slipped years before I was born.
Few smiles are left on this dismal timeline. And I shall use them wisely. But, for now,
I think I will just weep, sleep forever and hope that you don't give up on me and pull the plug.
I am still here somewhere, just dormant. Please wake me up. Get me out of this charred cabin,
This glass box. Pull me out of my warped sense of everything, teach me again what
Love feels like. I have forgotten amidst everything that I have felt and remembered.
There is no more room for things to be learned. Only for things to be repaired.
I will give you a hammer. Come inside and fix me; that ***** in your head couldn't have taken your knowledge away. You are the only one that knows.

Use this never ending lightning and bring your bride to life.
BB Tyler Jan 2011
I'd like to begin
by pointing out the color of the walls;
the pink under the plaster,
and the tubes,
red and blue,
that keep my shower water warm.

This is my home,
that some call a temple,
with two brightly lit halves of an attic,
and no trouble keeping them full.

Its windows are always open,
except when the lights go out
and the shutters are pulled closed
and all that's left breathing is the fireplace
and the attic.

the fire place is a grand face
of grout and proud brick
cradling the humblest coals
under his black, stuffy nose
clogged with no longer solid logs.
His breath keeps the attic warm,
with the help of the coals,
who ask for no thanks.

I'd invite you in
if it wasn't for the moss on the threshhold.
That emerald green.
Those gems that seem,
with dew, to gleem  
a blue and gold sheen
of umpteen citrines.
The sun's careen is seen by these
green finger leaves.

When I turn out the lights
and retreat to the attic,
I hear the moss sigh
like some sort of static.
Her breath reaches the crest
of my gentle home's breast.
The ceiling beam shudder
with a reeling like no other;
A sound that makes me cry,
while my cluttered attic comforts me,
and I speak no word but why.

The moss,
she makes me cry.

I'd like to end
by pointing out the color of the windowpanes,
and the gray of the drywall.
The tubes,
red and blue,
still keep my shower water warm.

This is my home,
that some call a temple,
with two brightly lit halves of an attic,
and no trouble keeping them full.

Its windows are rarely open,
except when the lights go out
and the shutters flutter open
and all that's left breathing is the fireplace
and the attic,
and the colors.
Copyright: Bennett Tyler

The Tragic True LOVE Story of Blanche Monnier

Just for falling in LOVE
With a commoner
Blanche Monnier was kept in attic
For 25 years
Blanche's True LOVE survived

The year was 1876

In midst of the Third Republic period in France
When the historical power struggle of royalist ******* and republican radicals were discussed in bourgeois socialites
That's the time when
In a small place called Poitiers
Four hours away from Paris
There lived:
Madam Louise Monnier
Wealthy and prominent
Member of CLASS society
Known in Parisian high society
For their charitable works
Who had received many community awards too

With her son
Marcel Monnier
A brilliant student
And a prominent lawyer
Well respected in Paris

And her daughter
(Marcel's sister)
Twenty Five years old
Beautiful beyond words
Very gentle and good natured
A young socialite in rich circles

Lived happily in their
Monnier Estate

It was during this time
Blanche fell in LOVE with a suitor
Let us call him
Who lived in her neighborhood
Sadly he was not young
Nor was he from rich aristocrat family
He was elderly man,
Basically a commoner
And an unsuccessful penniless lawyer

Madam Louise Monnier - disapproved
Of such alliances for her daughter Blanche and
Insisted Blanche to marry a more suitable man
Of her own age, class and status

But in passion of her LOVE -
Blanche profusely disagreed
And Madame Monnier got angry
They quarreled and argued
One day Madame Monnier locked Blanche
In a dungeon attic ordering
"Until you would agree - you are imprisoned"

Years passed
But Blanche was stubborn
So much in deep LOVE with James
She did not relent to her Mother's wishes

So the story goes....
Nine years passed

On this side James - Blanche's suitor
The beau too died in 1885

It is said that
Blanche's brother Marcel apposed his mother
To at least set Blanche FREE now
But Madam Louise Monnier had absolute
Stronghold and control over the family
Thus Marcel aboded to his mother's decree
And Blanche was kept locked still after

In the eyes of society
Beautiful young Blanche had simply disappeared
Without a clue

Madame Monnier and Marcel mourned
In front of everyone
Stating Blanche ran away
And continued to live their lives
As normal as those rich aristocrat families live

No one gave much thought to this
Everyone went about their life
As if nothing had happened

With time - they say
Blanche was forgotten
From everyone's memory

For over 25 years,
Blanche remained in a attic dungeon
Tied to her bed
Waiting for her LOVE
But her mother Madam Louise,
And her brother Marcel
With their two servants
No one helped her to be FREE

Blanched was chained in a dark attic room
She was accompanied by rats and lice
Day after day
Living in dirt and darkness
Alone, isolated, in solitude
Blanche became insane
Drown in her own tears and
In company of
Rats, bugs and pests...
And rotten odor

Rumors say that it was one of the female servants
Who slipped the secret of
Monnier Estate's beautiful daughter Blanche
To her boyfriend
Who immediately wrote a letter to
The Attorney General

In 1901,
Attorney General of Paris
Received an anonymous note
Handwritten and unsigned

The content were disturbing
And The Attorney General
Sent his police team to investigate
The Police arrived to search Monnier Estate

At first,
Police couldn't find anything unusual
Until they came across strange odor
Coming from upper floors

When the Police went upstairs
Madam Louise Monnier sat
On the ground floor living hall
Calmly reading a book

When the Police approached
The attic room
From where the odor was coming
They saw that the room was padlocked

Realizing something amiss
Police smashed the lock and
Broke open the room

The horrors lay within

A pitch dark room
With only one window
Shut closed with black curtains

The stench of room was so over whelming
That immediately the window was broke open

With the light coming in
The police realized that the bad odor
Was because of rotting food
That littered all over the floor

And in a corner - there was a bed
Where an emaciated women was chained

She was our Blanche Monnier
Fifty years old now
Tied to the bed
It was over two decades
She had not even seen the sun
And she had lived
In her own excrements

That beauty of youth
That youthful LOVELY being
A divine, kind, pure hearted girl
Did not even resembled like a human

She was naked
Chained like animals to the bed
Lying on a straw mattress

She was completely
Frightened and delirious

She weighed just 50 pounds (22 kilograms)

Police covered Blanche in a white sheet
And took her to the hospital
Madam Louise Monnier - and Marcel were arrested
For this atrocious inhumane crime
Of imprisoning and treating Blanche
So badly
For what? -
for a natural act of LOVING

"We can not even comprehend
What a LOVER goes through
When subjected to such punishments"

Blanche was horrendously malnourished
In hospital she was lucid to be rescued and freed
She exclaimed...
"How lovely it is to breathe the fresh air"

When she was informed about James
She could not even remember
The reason for her current state -
Was "LOVE"
Her eyes were hollow, her face was blank

There was public out-cry all over France
It was loud and clear
Public out-raged was brimming
They wanted the mother and brother punished

And Madam Louise Monnier -
Who was seventy years old then
suffering from heart disease
Could not take the shock
Of such societal backlash
For the horrible crime she committed

It is accounted that
Madam Louise Monnier
Died in police custody
15 days after Blanche's rescue
Police say -
Probably of a heart attack

Brother Marcel was imprisoned for 15 months
He confessed of
Not being directly part of the crime
But just acting under pressure of his mother

The whole blame was put on Madam Louise Monnier
Brother Marcel was considered only an accomplice
And thus when Marcel pleaded innocent and sought pardon
He was acquitted and set FREE
Such were the laws of those days

Our LOVER - Blanche Monnier
Had suffered greatly
The mental trauma
Of LOVE longing had
Lasting psychological damage

There after
Blanche lived in a French Sanitarium
Till she died in 1913
Twelve year after she was liberated

People say - that at times
The nursing staff used to hear Blanche
Sing the songs of LOVE

And they used to see Blanche
Talking LOVINGLY with a non-existing person
Most probably that person was "James"
The man she LOVED more than her life

Thus is remembered
The story of Blanche's LOVE

She suffered but never relented
To her mother's wishes
"To forget her LOVER James"

It was impossible to survive for 25 years
Without proper food, light, sun, or any human company
In that tiny dark dungeon attic
But Blanche did miraculously survive
With the hope that one day
She will be FREE
She will meet James
And she will LOVE James
And she will say to James
"My Jamie, see I did truly LOVE YOU"

That's the power of TRUE LOVE
This is a TRUE STORY
Garrett Burger Dec 2017
sleeping in the attic.
I allow the sensation,
the atmosphere to be formed and felt
No illusion of yours
creates the things I imagine and feel
on my own,

In this attic
some would say
the slanting ceilings
bring me down
But I,
would disagree.
which is why
I'm In the attic

I see the peek. The rising walls
Lifting me along with it
Though their opinions are not relevant,
So should be my choice of words.
but, because, though

I'm here.
I'm here because I chose to be
choose to stay
The walls too close to echo
my thoughts.
too close to shout
Even the whispers are heard
in full volume

Maybe I rushed that one out.
let's take it back to,
the attic.

Not room for too much,
Just too little time to worry
about space for the things
You don't need.
don't use,
or don't have.
Only the things that belong
make it with you
When you live in a space,
like this

I'd cover the walls,
Though I don't like the metaphor
I'd wait until tomorrow
to address the issue,
Though I have no way of knowing
when tomorrow has arrived.
yet here i am.
Avoiding it anyway.

and I'm already hearing myself being talked,
and thought.
into only a space as small as these 4 uneven walls

to no surprise.
Only until I closed my eyes
did I see
The reason I'm here
In the attic.
‘There were noises up in the attic
When I arose today, Maureen,
Have you been storing your batik
Up on the shelves, for the shelves aren’t clean!
I said you shouldn’t go prying there,
There is nothing up there to see,
Just things I cast from a hazy past
Before your marriage to me.’

‘I keep all my art and craft downstairs
In the cupboard, next to the door,
You’ve watched me folding my batik there
So what would you ask me for?’
‘I only wondered,’ her husband said,
‘Those scrabbles, they could have been rats,
More reason never to venture there…’
‘I’ll bring in the neighbours cats!’

She smiled, and blew him a kiss just then,
They hadn’t been married long,
They’d worked together for six long months
When she only knew him as John.
But after the office party, and
That cupboard, under the stairs,
A half a jug of Bacardi, and
They knew, the future was theirs.

She heard the scrabbling overhead
On a Sunday, lying in,
And what seemed like a rattle of chains
Though she thought, it couldn’t have been.
John Dean was out at the supermart
So she scrambled out of bed,
Pulled down the ladder and mounted it
To the attic, overhead.

The hatch slid back from a faulty catch
And she peered, up into the gloom,
There were spiders webs and rusty beds,
And dust, in that grim old room,
She saw what looked like a cabin trunk,
Padlocked, and covered in chain,
And another trunk with an open lid…
She climbed down the ladder again.

At lunch, she mentioned the sounds she’d heard
And she watched her husband’s face,
He seemed quite distant, then perturbed,
Got up and began to pace.
‘You haven’t been up in the loft, Maureen,
That attic is out of bounds!’
‘Well listen to you, the stern John Dean!
How do you think that sounds?’

They didn’t talk for another day
But her anger was aroused,
While he went up to the attic twice,
Mad at the scene he’d caused.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said,
It’s just that it’s full of dirt.’
But she shrugged off his excuses, she
Was playing at being hurt.

She searched the house for the padlock key
That had locked the trunk in chain,
Then finally found it on his ring,
And slipped it off again.
She waited until the coast was clear
With John Dean not around,
Climbed the ladder and opened the trunk
With the key that she had found.

Just as she went to raise the lid
His head appeared in the hatch,
‘Sorry it’s come to this, our kid,
You’re about to meet your match.’
The lid went up and she looked aghast
At the woman, speared with a knife,
‘Maureen, please meet Deborah Dean,
She was my former wife.’

She pulled the knife from the woman’s throat
And she pointed the blade at him,
‘Don’t think you’ll ever do that to me,’
Her voice was dour and grim.
‘That open trunk is your future home,’
He said as he locked the hatch,
‘You’ll jump right in and you’ll close the lid
When you hear the giant rats!’

David Lewis Paget
Sitting up in the attic room
with things forgotten, out of bloom
A china doll of antique grace
with porcelain cracked and ***** face
Ringlets of golden honey hair
in a velvet burgundy dress long past care
Little hands open in out stretched arms
Portraying all the grandeur of Victorian charms.
Sitting atop a wooden box
beside a clock that never tocks
Around her lays all that is forgotten
Pictures,Toys, wool and cotton.
Belongings to another time and place
things that once came please and grace
A painting that upon a wall did stand
A trumpet that once Jazzed a band.
Saddened all to the timeless lack
They fill the Attic, every nook and crack.

On nights when the full Moon's light is there
when its magical rays through the attic's windows fare
The Little Doll's eyes do twinkle
where Moonbeams fall and sprinkle.
Granted if but for a moment
the doll that has long lain dormant
Awakens with a child like giggle
where memories within her tingle.
The Clock is given a moment in time
to tick a second, sound a chime
While down stairs the family talk
unknowing what above their heads does walk
However, every now and then upon the full Moon
A sound they'll hear in the Attic room
No sooner than they open the door
the magic ends what powers did soar
As they peer into what lays dead and still
a tingle up their spines does fill
For there Sitting upon her wooden seat
with arms out stretched and bare feet
Bella awaits the next full Moon's shine
When the clock shall tick and again shall chime.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
robin May 2013
i spent a year as a ghost and when the equinox came i choked on every sunset i had seen and passed out in your attic, i'll just wait here until you realize the chains don't rattle anymore and maybe you'll wonder what happened to that unwanted guest or maybe you'll just be thankful it's gone, maybe my ectoplasm will drip through the attic floor and into your bed and with  a passenger in your dreams they'll be even lonelier than before i'm sorry i keep corroding a hole in your heart but i can't help the way my ghost-self falls and when it's gone altogether you'll be a ghost of your former self, walking in the shell of your life glazed eyes glazed words glazed world a ghost with a body is the worst kind of all cause they never fade away to heaven they just linger and linger and linger until they ROT and you can't forget that a ghost was there not with that body on the floor and could you have helped them it's hard to tell you never were an exorcist but maybe if you tried hard enough you could have put some of your life in that body or just ripped the ghost free and ended the misery, heart corroded through and i in my ectoplasm will wait in your bed wait for your shell-body to give up the charade each night and with my arms holding you you'll be lonelier than before - i spent a year as a ghost and cried over your bright eyes every night, i spent a year as a ghost but now, i the ghost of a ghost and you the living ghost in a breathing corpse, we're a modern romance horror story of the eternal kind, and when your heart's corroded through i'll hold you so tight but for now i will wait in your attic, putrefying ectoplasm and bitter sunsets, i never felt this much when i breathed and now it's caught up with a vengeance out for blood when i have none to spill i'll just lie here and choke and wait for this to pass this will pass this will pass this too shall pass, you move below and gam zeh ya'avor i pray this for you that your bitter life shall too pass, i spent a year as a ghost and watched you moan every night i spent a year as a ghost and watched you curled up on linoleum the only thing i could do was sink inside and try to absorb some of what you felt but i think all i did was corrode you further, i'm sorry i'm so sorry that my body is acid and my arms just eat you through, i tried to be your friend but i just made you lonelier your dreams are so empty when you're held by a ghost, they say you only dream of people you know so it's no wonder you dreamt of nothing everyone disappeared so fast it was hard to believe they'd been there at all, a mirage a puff of smoke you never really knew and that fled when it got ***** and dressed in all the white clothing you owned you laid on the bathroom floor and breathed smoke you laid on the floor and ground your knuckles into your eyelids as my ectoplasm dripped into your open eyes and cupid was a demon that ripped at your chest and laughed cupid was a demon and you brought that demon to your bed again again i cried i cried and you bled from all the scratches in your chest and s i g h e d, cupid hissed snarled bit but you know everybody has their flaws closer so much closer you held and cupid ripped though to the other side i told you i told you so but you just sit on your bed with your back against the wall and your hollow torso bleeds you sit on your bed eyes blank eyes glazed and bleed and i drip in your chest, i tried to warn you i tried but now i'll just lay in your attic and wait because the chains don't clank anymore to give you some kind of company in your empty house empty life, maybe you'll notice and here you can find me - the floor of your attic was always the closest i could get to heaven.
Pretty girl Apr 2016
I think that possibly maybe I'm falling for you
Sad part you don't even have a clue
It's me I hollar but you're stuck in your own head
Me I yell but there is no one at the door
Look I say but you're up in your attic
I run searching for you in the halls of your mind and you are searching for something that you'll never find
Turn around I say but my words are whispers carried through the wind
The noise unable to reach you
It's like I don't exist and for a second I stop and look around its my memories playing a trick on me because you really were never there in this attic we both share
but we don't and its my attic that I need to clean out I've got bones under my bed and bats in my head
I forget what I'm doing in this basement walking around the empty spaces
Wasn't I in the attic?
I actually like this one ... I usually hate what I write but I think this is good. Just me :P being weird. Okay I'm done :)
Nicholas Kurtz May 2014
I knew there was love in that attic

It had to be found

There was love in that attic

Lost and I found

Inspiration through word and thought

Old, red, romantic, poetry

To the north I’m lead

And I know I’ll find a place

Like these books a shelf

For after all

I’ve been dusted from the attic myself

Those fiery red books

I knew there was love inside

For I’m BookGuy

From me no man can hide

They needed no library, no vintage store

For the pigs live next door

And all they do is

*****, *****, *****

I know for I once lived in this thought

I played pig poker, smoked cigars

Even licked pig salt

Bust cast out ye stupid pigs

They have no authority

Some wise minority

For those dusty red things

Once lost and I find

For I’m BookGuy

I transcend time

I sweep the dust, death and decay

Reborn in red books

Roundelay, Roundelay
I need some help from the community on this one. I really need to edit! I feel it needs to find it's voice, either modern or old english, I'd like to convert it too full old english. What do you think? But comeon. I'm not that talented
My sister Susan had disappeared
At the age of twenty four,
She’d gone on up to the attic room
And she’d locked and barred the door,
We beat, cajoled, and entreated her,
But she never would come out,
I said, ‘We shouldn’t have argued Sue,
I didn’t need to shout.’

My father came with his gravel voice
And demanded ‘Open up!’
He thumped and kicked on the cedar door,
And beat with a metal cup,
But there wasn’t even a whimper
As of somebody inside,
It was like she’d suffered a broken heart
Had crawled in there, and died.

We left her there till the morning,
Thought a night would calm her down,
‘She’ll come out once she is hungry,’
Said my brother, (he’s a clown).
But as the clock struck for dinner time
With not the slightest stir,
My father carried a battering ram
And ran right up the stair.

He stood and battered the cedar door,
He said it gave him pain,
‘I can’t afford to replace it, but,’
Then belted it again,
The door had splintered, the lock fell off
And he burst into the room,
But all that he saw were cobwebs, dust
And an air of deepest gloom.

‘Susan, where can you be,’ he cried,
‘There’s nowhere you can hide,
There isn’t even a window here
So you can’t have got outside,’
His voice rang out through the house and sent
An echo down the stair,
My mother burst into tears to hear
That Susan wasn’t there.

The police came over and climbed the roof,
Dropped into the attic space,
They hunted among the rafters there,
Looked almost every place,
There wasn’t a sign of Susan though
She’d simply disappeared,
‘The same thing happened to Grandma Coe,’
My mother cried, ‘It’s weird!’

‘She locked herself in the attic there
In the fall of forty-eight,
‘They thought that they heard her on the stair
When the hour was getting late,
But never a sign of her came back,
Then her husband, Grandpa died,
We always thought that she must be here
But somehow locked inside.’

We called the local clairvoyant in
And he brought his Tarot pack,
He stared long into his crystal ball
Till we had to call him back,
He chanted into the midnight hour
In a voice both loud and slow,
Till shuffling out of the Attic came
Not Sue, but Grandma Coe!

David Lewis Paget
SS May 2014
The brand new house is empty.
The young couple
has long since moved.
Pictures no longer hang on the walls
Her heart is bitter and bruised.

The wood's cracked bit by bit
And the tiles are coming up.
Wallpaper down to the baseboards
And photos completely cut.

And the girl who lived inside
You'll always find her near,
Her car will drive by daily
It's engine you can hear.

She stops out front,
her lights down low.
And puts the car in park.
Her head turns up,
Her eyes so dull.
The attic, it's not dark.

Today, the girl got married.
To a  man she loves the most.
But her thoughts went to the attic
In the middle of her toast.

And with her brand new husband,
She drove right past the house,
On the way to their home down the street.
Her hand held by her spouse.

For the first time in a long time
The attic was all dark.
Her eyes turned to the new man
Consumed with a new spark

Sure the light flicks on from time to time
Like when their old song starts to play.
When she's stuck inside and starts to think,
Or when her mind just goes astray.

Or when she catches his scent
On a stranger,
Passing by in a crowded room,
Or when she remembers back
To when they fell in love,
And his eyes looked like the moon.

But with the attic
So **** dark,
She placed another light.
That one will shine forever
It's the one that's always bright.
“Something about first love defies duplication. Before it, your heart is blank. Unwritten. After, the walls are left inscribed and graffitied. When it ends, no amount of scrubbing will purge the scrawled oaths and sketched images, but sooner or later, you find that there’s space for someone else, between the words and in the margins.”
Tammara Webber, Where You Are
Akhil Bhadwal Aug 2014
As soon as the exams were over, we will be taken over
To a place already familiar to us, as this was ours to be taken over always
The place was like forever before, a two story cubicle
With a small attic attached, the best part of it.

They welcomed us, as usual with some food and sweets
Which made us feel drowsy for the time being
And we will go to bed in the attic, which we will insist
As it was a place full of suspense and thrill

The attic was used as a storage room, with a bedding spread between
The enshrouded variety of storage, which will be our apparatus
In this lab of mystery, sometimes we will find some
Interesting things like, train tickets, military calendars and at other times, great mouth tangling stuff

#004 The Attic. A nostalgic prosework dedicated to one of my sweetest childhood memory. No rhyme scheme is followed.
Phil Lindsey May 2015
Part 4*
When we last left poor Agnes
In her attic all alone
She couldn’t find her way back down,
And she had no telephone.
No light switch and no stairway
She couldn’t find the hall
The elevator disappeared
(It had sunk into the floor)
And to make her situation worse,
She couldn’t find the door!

But Agnes McDuff was pretty tough;
She didn’t mess around
She thought of stuff that she could use
To help her get back down.

First she lit the candlesticks
So she would have some light -
For an attic with no window
Is black as darkest night.

With candlelight, she now could see;
She dumped the clothes from all the boxes,
Put the boxes on the table,
Next she stacked the wooden blocks.
She found some nails and a hammer
In her Grandma’s toolbox.
She nailed it all together
And on top she nailed the chairs
Now Agnes had a set of crazy, crooked
Homemade stairs!
Agnes went back to the toolbox,
She saw a saw was there,
She carried it very carefully
As she climbed the crazy stair.

Now you might have a feeling
Of what she was going to do
Yes, she climbed up to the ceiling, and
Used the saw to cut right through!

She climbed back down and looked around
Found the rubber bands and string
Added several woolen socks
And made a giant sling!

She rummaged through the dumped out clothes
Found a wedding dress and suit
And with the needle and the spool of thread
Made a great big parachute!

She hooked the parachute to the bicycle
(The one without a spoke)
And tied the back wheel to the tuba
And that was NOT a joke.

The tuba was quite heavy
So it kept the bike at rest
Once again climbed up the crazy stair
And performed the final test.

She nailed both ends of the slingshot
Around the opening she’d sawn
Hooked the sling around the bicycle
Moved the stair, and then got on.

Somehow the clock was working!
It was ringing Three, Two, One
And just as Agnes cut the tie she thought
Boy! This could be FUN!

The slingshot worked!*
Shot Agnes out, on the bike, way up into the sky,
And she looked around in wonder thought,
Boy!  I’ve never been this high!

She went up a mile or so
Before she dared look down
She saw the long suspension bridge
And the other parts of town.
She saw the entrance to the tunnel
(The rest was under ground)
She saw the roundhouse and the avenue
The park and then the lake
Finally, she saw her house
There was no mistake!

So she deployed the parachute
And gently she descended
And this is where the story
Of Agnes Attic should have ended.

She walked up to the doorway
Turned the handle, now you see?
The door was locked from the inside,
Agnes McDuff forgot the key!
PwL  May 4, 2015
Ms. Sally A Bayan requested this.  Said I couldn't just leave Agnes in the Attic!   :-)
I am shylock,
In the attic barely used,
Barren exuberant floorboards creak in exhalation,
Of your footsteps.
There you find me,
In the dust;
A wooden trunk with brass fixings,
Didn't I tell you I held a million treasures?
You breathe in the sunlight,  
From the round attic window,
Preening itself in your vision basked in gold.
I am shylock,
You moved a gilded hand,
Guided by a unknown force of union with the lock,
The air is silent around you,
The room is intrepid in its wanton stranger,
Who dares to enter this chamber of dust.
I am shylock,
You take my fingertips from the cup of a hand I had placed gently on your cheek,
The night before I had told you,
Of this room,
You gently take my fingers and place it on the lock.
I am shylock,
There is a gentle click,
That soon awashes the abated room,
That sways into a tsunami of grandeur,
Of history, emotion, silence and tears,
And it consumes the dust,
The acrid air and essence of my fears settle on your eyes and the homely mouth.
I am shylock,
You know how I came about,
You know how this room became accustomed to the dust,
And the floorboards, the dust,
And the window, the dark,
You are breathing me,
The trunk is open and waiting,
And at the bottom,
A ragdoll awaits your palm,
Your strength, your gentleness and patience,
This is my shy,
This is my lock,
And you entered the room and consumed me.
Burst through the door, cut down the labyrinth,
and found me.
Picking me up,
Became me, attended me, held me,
with grace sensitive to my touch,  
with the intention of a protector to my defence,
And the brazen warrior to my battle.
Now I am entered and countered.
Protected and put together,
Unbound and in your arms;
Now I am open and free.
My ragdoll, your love, and me.
Together, unlocked,
together I and you become, we.
Ria Bautista Jan 2011
There once was a boy who lost his smile
His name was Colin Trench, born evil & vile
A pale-skinned young lad, tall, wide-eyed and frail
His ashen hair quite unkempt, but sometimes he puts it in a pony-tail
Always dressed in a proper black suit, bow tie & all
"It makes me look more evil" says he, standing proud and tall
He lived in a dark & dingy tower up on Dreadful Hills
Where birds refuse to sing and a mere glimpse would give anyone chills
His only consort is a cat named Lacrimose, vile & evil as he
Both love the taste of ginger bread, strawberry ale & rose tea

One dreary morning in November when Colin woke
He realized that he missed his smile, lost since he was a little bloke
He stepped out of his room and summoned his loyal cat
"O Lacrimose" he said, "Today we will find where my smile is at!"
They began searching the tower, high & low, left & right
"It's just around here somewhere" he whispered, "I probably lost it in the dead of night"
They pulled out old drawers, empty cupboards & dusty cabinets
But all they found were cobwebs, memorabilia & broken trinkets
"Ah Lacrimose!" shouted Colin, "Look what I found here!"
"This wind-up jumping frog was given to me by mother dear!"
They searched behind the curtains, under the bed and beneath the sheets
But all they found was another toy, a little black bird that tweets
"This little bird" he remembered, "I gave it a name"
"Ah yes, it's Horus and hide & seek was her favorite game."
He put both toys in his pocket and continued searching, never giving up
Colin & Lacrimose were determined to find the lost smile before the sun was up

They left the bedroom floor and down the basement they went
A dark & sinister place with walls of chipped cement
Colin turned the light on and a rusty typewriter is what they saw
“This clunky old machine” he said, “used to leave me in absolute awe.”
Pointing at the corner, he went on, “This is where father used to write”
“He read to me his wonderful adventures much to my delight.”
“Let’s go to the attic” he told Lacrimose with a sigh
“There’s nothing left to see here but half-written stories & goodbyes.”
So up the attic they went, but as they entered the floor began to creek
“This won’t take long, Lacrimose” he assured the cat, “We’re just going to have a little peek.”
“The last time I went up here” he recalled, “I was a little boy aged 7.”
“It was that fateful day I was told that my loving parents went to heaven.”
He looked at Lacrimose feeling somber as ever
And noticed his cat nibbling on what seems to be an old letter:
“Colin, our dear son” he read out loud, “We love you with all our hearts.
We’re sorry we had to leave you, in the morning we must part.
The choice is not ours to make, we have to fight for our country.
We’ll be home after the war is over, just in time for your birthday party.”

As he held the letter in his hand, he sat on the floor and started to weep
His parents’ death he tried to forget, in his heart he buried it deep
“A few months after receiving this letter” Colin remembered completely,
“3 men in military uniforms informed me that my parents died valiantly.”
“They never made it to my 7th birthday, I had no reason to celebrate.”
“In my heart there used to be joy & love, but since that moment I replaced it with hate.”
And the days after that, Colin not once did cry
But today was different, he knew it was time to say goodbye
He went down the attic and walked to the garden behind the tower
Carrying with him Lacrimose, he picked up a tiny little flower
He approached his parents’ final resting place with hardly an upward glance
Colin yearned for forgiveness and this was his perfect chance

From his pocket he pulled out the wind-up frog & Horus, the little black bird
Along with the letter found in the attic and without saying a word
He neatly placed the items on the ground with the tiny flower on the side
Today Colin learned about acceptance; there is nothing left to hide
He began to speak and this is what he had to say:
“Forgive me mother & father, but your passing has left me in complete disarray.”
He kneeled on the ground and cried like he never did before
Tears streamed down his face and it didn’t stop ‘till his eyes were sore
His hands were shaking as he covered his face
He never did forget the loss he tried so hard to erase
As soon as he stood up and slowly opened his eyes
He saw on the horizon a beautiful & magnificent sunrise
Stepping through the field, wiping his tears away
To his loyal companion he said: “From now on we will have better days.”
“Lacrimose, my dear friend, we shall no longer be evil & vile”
Ah, it is a great day indeed for Colin Trench began to smile.
My first Children's Rhyme!

Herman Nucleosis Jan 2013
I open the old, dusty attic window
Closed for so long, house of another Charlotte
And though it takes time, and the dust,
Still, I open the old, dusty attic window.

I had no plans on sneezing, no dust
will make me sneeze, is what I said
And I had time to spare, if there ever
was time to be nostalgic, it was this.

I open, open the old, dusty attic window
And see, through both black and white and
colored, simultaneously, I see the memories
Flashing back, like they weren't mine.

Are they real? Yes, they are. They just
don't feel like they come from me.
More like I'm audience inside me
Through the old, dusty attic window.

I play through the see-saw, and
slide down the slide, swing through
the swing, all the while with
different, many, many different people.

But she is the one I remember most.
She makes me sneeze, from the dust.
I should have known, and I sit
And watch the two of us, just the two of us.

How she would share the slide, and
push my swing with her might
And how I'd refuse to let her play
Just make her push me, and push.

How she'd be the tag, and look
and look for me, only to realize
That I have left her, have left
her counting, and hoping, and alone.

How I'd push her so she'd hurt
herself. How I'd almost push her so
she'd still get hurt anyway. How
she'd look up and smile and stand.

How she'd sometimes go quiet, some-
times go sad, though she'd never
really show, and still smile, and
push my swing and play with me.

How I'd turn my back when I think
she needed me most, and convince
myself that for some reason she
deserved it, to be alone.

And I wonder now, when I turned my
back, did she ever cry? Was I important
enough to have called to surface
The tears she so effectively can hide?

Did she love me enough that she
could endure? Or was I nothing so
she could shrug off the
bullyings that I did?

And I close the old, dusty attic window
Because she makes the dust make me sneeze.
And I still sneeze, because she always could,
Always, make the dust make me sneeze.

And now that she's in another playground
With more willing playmates who don't leave
Her alone in hide & seek, I wish to go
back and have her again.

And I think if I could have moved on
To the next playground with her, would
she still have played with me,
Although she is well-loved by others?

And I know (like I always have, only that I was
too selfish to acknowledge) that I have
hurt her, and she did not deserve
But still she stayed with me.

And I will always sneeze from her dust
Her way to remind me, my way to remind me
That for all the times she smiled, for all the times I
hurt her, I hurt myself more.
J M Surgent May 2014
One time, when I was ten or eleven years old, for a holiday or something my uncle bought me a model set of a scale V-8 engine. He knew I was into cars, but without kids himself, had no idea that this kind of gift was worlds beyond my preteen intellectual abilities. It fell to the wayside that year, useless in comparison to the easy to open, assemble and operate toys my parents bought me instead.

I had completely forgotten about this model until one night in college when I couldn’t sleep because I was too wrapped up in my own existential crises of the time and too nostalgic looking at all the old car posters in my room. I remembered the V-8 engine, and how even at 21 I couldn’t name a single part in a car engine, let alone assemble one, which was sad because I had been driving them five years at that time. So, with some sort of unexplained sense of unfinished accomplishment, I felt a need to finish it. Or really, to start it.

I got out of bed and started to tear apart my closet, piece by piece, coming across old articles of clothing I never wore, a few aging airsoft guns and even a few smaller models I never assembled, but alas, no V-8 engine. With my labors unyielding, I grabbed a flashlight and headed quietly to the attic, hoping that would be lend a more fruitful search. It took me a little digging and a lot of splinter avoiding in my bare feet, but finally I found it. I blew most of the dust off the box, removing more with my hands, and held the box in my hands like a treasure. It was smaller than I remembered, and the age on the box said 12+, which now looking back on it means I should have been easily able to complete it when I got it.

I worked these thoughts out of my mind, instead turning my attention to the plastic wrap around the box which came off with ease. I pried the color-aged box top off to find a colony of loose parts, of all colors, alongside a small screwdriver, which at that moment gave me a sense of Excalibur in it’s placement. I touched the blue handle lightly, almost afraid to accept its reality at first. Then I just stared at the parts for a good five minutes before I remembered there was an instruction manual. I opened it to page one, and I began to build.

I must have worked on that model for five hours, by the light of my flashlight and the streaks of full moonlight that snuck in through the skylight above. Hours of part maneuvering and placing, losing, then replacing small screws and setting them into place with a tool made for hands half the size of mine word my fingers out. By the time I was finished, my fingers were a little sore and my flashlight was running low on batteries which didn’t matter because the sun was beginning to peer it’s eyes over the horizon. I looked at my creation before me, a lot smaller than I thought it would have been when I first received the box, and felt a sense of nostalgic victory. For years, this project taunted me from the dust piles and cobwebs of my attic, and now, too distant from my childhood to remember anything all too vividly, I completed a milestone that was meant for years prior. I thought about how, at age eleven, I would have proudly shown my father to gain his five minutes of fame for the day, and he’d ask me the name of a few parts of the engine as a quiz before asking me to grab him another beer and I’d feel like I was on top of the world. He’d tell me I could be a mechanic someday, or better year, a car designer. I’d smile and walk away accomplished.

That’s what I would have done then. Now, ten years later, I folded the pieces of the box and put them in the trash can, with the plastic wrap on top. I took my finely tuned engine, my product of nostalgic victory, and brought it back to the confines of the attic. I turned my flashlight back on, moving past splinters and upturned nails to the back, farthest corner, where a lonely black shadow kept all light from entering. I took my prized engine, which seemed even small now in my hands, and wiping away some of the cobwebs, placed it into that dark corner, displacing a slumbering daddy longlegs in the process. I placed the small blue screwdriver next to it, then thought better of it and wedged the sharp end into the wood in between two planks, with the crystalline blue handle glowing in the light of my flashlight, sticking straight out like the tool of Excalibur that it truly was to me.

I took one last look at my creation, then turned and left, knowing that, like my childhood, I’d never return to it. I locked the attic door on my way out and checked the floor for loose parts, covering up any traces of my journey back into one of the aspects of my childhood that I forgot to partake in.
It's really a short story, but I wanted to share it nonetheless, and have no other way to.
Wayward Jul 2018
I was born out of fur and cotton,
With eyes that were shiny, black buttons.
From the store rack, I always watched the distant tree.
But one fine day, this little girl picked me.

My owner handled me with great care.
I was, after all, her beloved teddy bear.
I seemed to be her biggest comfort,
When she couldn't sleep or she felt troubled.

Years passed by and so did my time.
The little girl didn't need her teddy when she cried.
As I lay with the other toys in the attic,
I realized that my short life was quite tragic.

"Mr. Cuddles! Your child's best friend!"
But who's going to care about me in the end?
I played my part. I stayed with you.
But in the end this is what it came to.

Mr. Cuddles, the lonely one.
Who lies in the attic with his fur undone.
The cotton keeps falling out of his limb,
The once happy bear now lays grim.

I attempted personification for the first time. I kind of relate to this poem though. I feel like Mr. Cuddles. And that somehow is my greatest fear. I fear being unloved and forgotten. I hope I got the message delivered in the poem.
AnnaMarie Jenema May 2014
Mom should’ve been here by now. I sat on my frilly blue and purple polka-dotted bed waiting for the knock on the door telling me mom found my dress. Finally, it raps on my door. “Mom! Did you find it?” My eyes widen as the silky blue sways in her arms, it’s beauty sings as a caged bird let free. I gasp in admiration. “I-It’s wonderful!” I pick it up and it glides down into a perfect fit.  “I’m glad you love it. Come down after you finish getting ready.” The door thuds after her. Looking across the room I note my honey brown hair that curls into pigtails. Restraining the squeal that is caught in my throat, I travel the length of my room to the mirror.

     The mirror sits on an antique dresser that my mom found at a garage sale. At first I didn’t care much for the ancient wooden junk that is at least half a century old. Now the gold-tinted metal gleams with pride once again. Rusty gems were in carved into an arc surrounding the mystic glass. “Lydia! Can you go upstairs and get that box down for me?” Mom’s request interfered with my thoughts. … Go in that dusty attic? “Sure mom!”

       Out the door and into the hallway stood a door like any other in our house. It squeaked open as eerily as what you’d expect in a haunted house. ‘A box, a box’ than out of the side of my vision I thought I saw motion. I shook it off as just being a spider or mouse. Soon my footsteps lead me to come across a dresser and mirror identical to the one in my room. It was cluttered with cobwebs and spiders. “Not very well taken care of, are you?” I muttered the joke. I looked into the mirror expecting to see a light blue dress covered in dust and sparkly silk material, but there was no reflection at all. I looked even closer at the mirror, before realizing, there was no mirror at all.

     I looked around until I found it behind the dresser, sitting on the ground. I touched one of the gems that surprisingly glowed despite the rust. Something shone until I was blinded. A tingle ran through the hand that brushed the mirror’s gem and flew through my arm until it encompassed me, racing into my every feeling until I couldn’t feel anything. My eyes shut and refused to open themselves.

     A gentle breeze grasped my hair, as music descended from the air. I could smell what seemed to be a banquet of some kind, mixed with perfume. Slowly my eyes lifted their veil to lock with waves pounding against a brick wall. I was looking down from a balcony into the erupting sea. The white brick-made balcony was large and lonely even with the brush of people walking by. I hid behind the rose-red curtains to look around. People danced and talked. Some ate. The music paved the trail for their feet to follow, all very gracefully. The men wore suits that tails drip to their knees. Their white shirts buried under sashes of gold, red, or blue. Sometimes holding medallions, some only dressed in ties. The woman wore Victorian dresses of every color and shade. Frilled hats with flowers were arranged on their heads.

     Wait, I’m not supposed to be here. I was in the attic, going to the café with mom. What was I doing? My head ached from the effort to recall my actions. Why can’t I remember? I stumble backward only to reach the balcony’s edge. Where is this anyway?

      I dive back into the curtain to search for my answer. The softness of the curtain was a rose pushed to my nose. I peeked through the small gap to find a page carting some clothes past my hiding spot. I sneaked next to the cart being wheeled into a doorway, planning to find a way out. I lost the page and walked around until I went through an archway door. The cool air spiraled against my silk-trapped skin. The scent of flowers bloomed around me. I found the garden labyrinth.

     Walking through the maze’s hedges I arrive at a beautiful fountain displaying crystal clear pouring waters. Everywhere I gazed, flowers embraced the greenery. My breath deprived my lungs of air as I took in the sight. It was so magnificent under the light of the full moon. A few lamps lighted a sidewalk path maneuvering along the hedges. I circled the fountain, taking in the surroundings. My silk dress was shining in the dim glow. The sceneries beauty entranced me.

     I didn’t see a shadow before me, and almost fell to the ground. In a graceful swoop an arm latched around my waist to pull me to my feet. “Be careful to look where you’re going, please my lady.” He bowed his head while his slim rimmed glasses started to fall off of his face, suddenly he looked up at me; sliding them back on with a slight wave of a finger. “That garb isn’t from around here.” He noted my sky blue dress with interest. I’m not even sure where I am. “I seem a bit lost. Will you help me?” he stares at me closer, a deeper curiosity shines in his green eyes, daintily brushed by his dark hair. “My dear, if it brings you comfort to know, we are in London at the Buckingham palace.”

      I gasped; London was so far away from New York. It’s across seas. I gulped at my next question as sweat pricked the nape of my neck, “What’s todays date?” His eyes sparkled at the question. “Why, it is June 28, of 1838. The entire castle is bustling at these very words. It’s a day to remember. Now my dear, I must take my leave and see to the ballroom. Farewell.” He bowed, than turned to leave. His slow stride seemed like a dance all on it’s own. My gaze was caught on his figure following the foot trail until he had disappeared. I sighed at my first encounter with someone in this grand place. The Buckingham Palace, in 1838. …1838!! That can’t be right, it’s 2014. Then the shock hit me as if bricks fell from the castle onto my forehead; the clothes, the language, the pages, and royalty. This couldn’t be London in present Great Britain.

    I circle the garden once more before I decide to go back inside. The young noble had realized my clothes didn’t belong here, probably anyone who sees me would recognize this too. I start off towards the footpath. The melodic rhythm still swirled in the breeze. Than for a second I thought I heard a footstep. My head twists back only to see a shadow move. The cool air now seems icy. Multiple possible things to say to the night air gallop through my mind. “ Such a lovely night,” is the one I decide on. From behind me a few feet back I imagine a sigh. No, not imagined, but actually there. It’s too real. I turn on my heels just to catch a glimpse of a black cape caught in the wind, as it’s master floats into the open. “My, It is lovely. However, I didn’t realize such a strangely dressed commoner as you could enter this palace.” His smirk shows sarcasm as easily as his eyes. “I never intended to visit a palace, even less in London.” My honest answer only has him conceal his laugh.

     “I’m sure you didn’t. Yet, your dressed for a fine occasion.” His hand reaches for mine. I pull away from the willowy figured glove. “Why not allow me this dance in the garden?” I back away, aware that his voice is too prescient and I should be careful. “Are you going to be wary of me?” his gaze turned pained, his blue eyes that were once full of playfulness now melted into hurt. I unintentionally reach out for his gloved hand. His laugh echoes past the foliage. “Such a naïve girl.” Dread decided that this nobleman should be avoided at all costs. I ran towards the palace. “And so the chase begins.” He snickers and rushes after me.

     I pass through the archways, glancing back now and again to find the caped captor flying along my tracks. If only there was some way to lose him. I ducked into the nearest doorway. At the far end of the hall I could see a door with a sign saying, “Dressing room”. I flung myself under a table and tablecloth to hide myself as my pursuer rounded the corner into the hall. I tucked my head between my knees and waited for his footsteps to fade. The warm place that held me trapped was close and too easily discoverable. I held my breath and tried to sink into the darkness. I’m not here. No one can find me.

     After enough time flew by to ensure my safety, I crawled out from under the table. The cloth draped over my head. I looked back and forth, half expecting to see a smirking smile, and haughty eyes. A girl stares down at me. She’s at least ten years old. “Shhh.” I press my finger to my lips and gently smile at her as if we’re keeping a secret between us. She giggles, copies the motion to her own mouth, than delightfully skips away. I let out a sigh and stand up. I follow the hall to the dressing room. The door creaks open and I look around once more, startled by the sudden noise.

     I sneak inside hoping find that the room is abandoned. In the darkly lit room, only my footsteps sound. As far as I can tell, no one has entered lately. I walk over to the carts of clothes and run my hand over the first one on the stack. It’s a ruby-red dress with fine material and some gems similar to those in the mirror. … The mirror. Not in my room, but the attic. My head hurts again, but I know I touched its gem before winding up here. How? I look through the dresses until I find a light blue and white one. The bowed sleeves come down to my elbow with frills encasing the bottom. The neckline forms a squared area of similar white frills. A small white sash acts as a belt that drops into the skirt of the dress. Two similar white ones come down each side. I pick up the light material and set it near my feet.
      My old silk dress easily slips overhead, making way for the new clothing. After tugging tight sleeves and bodices into place the light dress swoops over my feet. I spin through the dark room only to stop at catching someone’s eye. I immediately turn towards the frozen face. It is my own reflection in a mirror. I face myself as my sight settles on the dress I wear. My honey brown hair curled over the dress from my pigtails. My eyes sparkled it’s matching blue to the dress. In the corner of the room, next to the mirror, sat a large wooden box. I looked through it to find that it was full of jewelry and accessories. I prodded its contents until I found sky blue bows to wrap in my pigtails.

     I walked into the open hallway, now littered with people going to and fro. Anyone from passerby’s, young nobility, servants, and pages. Once the hall emptied I fled the room, hurrying through the corridors until I met with the room that created the harmonious trance. At the ends of the great ballroom sat crowds eating and laughing. Clusters of on-goers danced and chatted. In the middle of the farthest side of the room sat a throne that was embroidered with metal marks from centuries of legends. On the throne sat a woman at least eighteen of age. Her regal crown shone despite other attractions surrounding the dance room. A page strode over to her as she flourished her hand for his service. He stood and listened intently to her whispers. Finally, he stood and roared for the room’s attention. From his mouth spilled cheer and wistfulness, as he demanded the crowd’s ear. “Our young Queen Victoria’s coronation has completed. Now starts a new era! Let the celebration proceed.” The room reverberated with hope, love, and admiration for their new ruler.

     ‘Queen Victoria has been crowned’ having no clue how to find a way home, I disconsolately decide to join in the festivities. The crowd moves into a larger room. I stagger after them; the mass pushing everyone forward. We pass the kitchens. The aroma of cakes and deserts of every kind rises into the cool night air. The only smell more perceptible than delicate delights is the perfume penetrating the entire castle. We enter a by far more spacious ballroom. Empty amphitheater seats loom overhead, tied into the walls for onlookers to watch the ball unravel. Once again I glance at these to notice black material hangs over the edge. A head moves as people fill the seats. A nobleman with a black cape and familiar blue eyes takes their seat next to men and woman of high status. I walk into the mop to hide myself, while watching him. He laughs and chats with them as if he’s known them all his life.

      Unable to watch where I’m going, I trip. The harsh, solid ground hits my knee as if I’ve met a tornado. I wince at the pain as I strain myself to stand. A firm, but careful hand grabs mine. I look up into green eyes shaded by recognizable glasses. “My dear, you are very clumsy.” He smiles at me as I pat my dress back into place. “I see we’ve met again.” My response comes weakly as the sore from my knee makes me flinch. “I don’t think you’ve told me your name.” I inquire. “You have not requested my name, so I haven’t told it. However, if you do me the honor of a dance, my secret may be leaked.”  He bowed and offered me his arm, as I timidly accept it.

     A new song disrupts the last, as new pairs take the stage. He walks me onto the floor, and diligently starts to dance. I watch my feet, not wanting to mistake my pace. “Lift your chin, my dear. You don’t seem to but much of a church-bell.” I looked up at him puzzled. “Church-bell?” As he tried to conceal a grin, his glasses couldn’t suppress the laughter in his eyes. “Your rather quiet. And most likely not from around London, are you?” I looked to the ground once more. Should I tell him or not? Will it start problems, or will I be okay? “It’s fine, I shall not expect you to answer a question you wish not to.” I looked up at him, solemnly. “I promised to introduce myself, correct?” I nodded, as the music that echoed around us faded into the next song.

      His movements were so fluid; he was a wave at the end of the day, flowing into the sunset. “Miss, I am known by most as William Anderson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He procured my sweaty palm into his, tenderly swiping his mouth to my fingers. I let my hand be brought back into the dance as I searched for words to speak. Once the dance ended a few moments later, I curtsey and murmur, “It’s nice to meet you. I am Lydia Olsen.” At my gesture he bows, and requests once more, “Am I trustworthy enough to understand why you are in a mysterious place you don’t understand?” My answer had been decided and started to splatter from my mouth. “Y…”

     The next sound bounces along the room, it’s symphony starting. My words mix into the noise. In my vision of the seats above, snowy dots shoot arrows in my direction. Blue eyes gaze down at me, their iciness piercing me as icicles prickle my skin. I exchange a glance with William, nod and answer, “You are. I’ll explain.” My discomfort is surely recognizable. I often peek over my shoulder above as we dance. The shadow with a glare starts his voyage through the seats to reach the stairs that pillar into the wall. He descends from the tower, only adding to my panic. My hand seizes Williams, as I give him an apologetic smile. We hurry from the room, stumbling over each other’s feet. His graceful prance, now a faltering wreak.

     Once we are outside the ballroom, I turn towards him. “I trust you, so please understand, I live In the USA in 2014. Not London, not Even in the 1800’s.” His expression is masked, but I’m sure that I’ve confused him. “I went back into time, from the future.” The simple words struck a chord with him, his glasses tilted off his nose as he listens intently. “The future? How?” even I don’t know how to answer such questions. “I’m not sure. I was in the attic with a mirror, than … ****! I’m here.” Confusion once again wonders onto his face. “I went into a storage room with old things, and found a mirror, touched a gem, now I was here.”

     “I see, but why did we run away from the celebration? I was looking forward to another dance with you.” His casual smile does nothing to conceal unasked questions. I’m not sure how to answer them ei
Nick Moore Jan 2013
Chaos my friend
there’s only one way to be
To make these eyes see.

Pragmatic in the attic,
a calmness and clarity
it’s the only way to be
pragmatic in the attic
To make these eyes see.
This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys
Of the Maria *****, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.

Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,

And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.

And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
We too might waste the summer-tranced day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.

But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.

Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield

Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
Which all day long in vales AEolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue

Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs
For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
Even that little **** of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheraea’s brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer

There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening’s dew could fill
Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold

As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns

Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,

Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis

Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,

Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia’s bard

With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;

Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

For well I know they are not dead at all,
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
Will wake and think ‘t is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.

If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—

Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—

Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.

Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!

Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn

Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush

Down the green valley where the fallen dew
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their horned master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!

Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the ****** maid will ride.

Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!

Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,
To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!

O for Medea with her poppied spell!
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,

Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.

O for one midnight and as paramour
The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!

Sing on! sing on!  I would be drunk with life,
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!

Sing on! sing on!  O feathered Niobe,
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and ****** pillowed sleep.

Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?

O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell!
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!

Cease, cease, or if ‘t is anguish to be dumb
Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.

A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.

A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had ****** aside the branches of her oak
To see the ***** gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.

A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile

Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy ***** with bare
High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.

Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou winged Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!

It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody

So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,

Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of ****** heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.

The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds

Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.

The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.

She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
She knows Endymion is not far away;
’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

Ah! the brown bird has ceased:  one exquisite trill
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.

And far away across the lengthening wold,
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark! ’Tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.
Jack Ghaven Jun 2015
Once an addict always an addict
And I'm back in the attic
Blowing dust off picture frames and knickknacks
Stirring up old feelings and panic attacks
These memories so fragile
These demons so quick and agile
None of it ever goes away
Just covered until a cloudy day
When my soul decides to do some housekeeping
But this is something no spring cleaning
Could ever completely sanitize
Until I come to realize
That this is no longer me
Just remnants of what I used to be
Struggling with the pen lately. First bit in awhile that I feel happy with.
Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.

AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure as the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,


It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--


Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,


Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.


Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!


Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.


The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!


Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,


I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.


Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous


Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.


Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.


Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"


     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.


befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.


Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.


They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.


As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.


She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.

He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four


I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.


Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.

Oh Mon Dieu !!

Universal Thrum Jul 2018
I'm leaving Carly's place after an all day ****** that had me convinced that paradise lay in the legs of Nate's sister wearing a unicorn onesie, and as they put on Sgt. Peppers and lay there the ****** freudian passion play overcame my capacity for archetype observation and I proceeded to walk around the room thanking everybody in that space and time for the gift of starting the **** with Nate's sister, the beat changed and they turned on me and said I needed to give her space, they all became timeless aliens traveling through time to **** and I was one of them coming online in a loop, and as long as I stayed awake I would remember and not be *****. I sat cross legged holding my friend sams hands, looking into his eyes, saying aloud we're creating the universe constructing all as the three smartest people of all time, forever throughout we died but never died, as long as we could stay awake, they all wore red and I couldn't trust any of them, I fired off mad questions and demanded to know the secrets of the universe and why woman wasn't the answer, I called up to nate to bring her down to me, and generally became a raving lunatic
      after some time of sam being soulmate and accepting him forever as my lover self same image, and also calling him ugly as im ugly, then channeling Brittany through him and countless other regressive exercises, we started inhaling nitrous gas, and the world became one stretched out moment
       and I kept calling out before, all the way up, as it were the secret spell with a handshake to fool the devil
         I thought Nate a mad spirit habituating this plane as a long gone failed hero plagued by the madness of wanting to **** his sister and forced to watch all his friends be aware of their own lust, so that pushed him into clowning, which he is an expert, that primal lust took me up and id taken a holy mandate to **** this beautiful creature and ascend to paradise,
when they slipped her upstairs they left her rainbow onesie, i felt heaven become another step remote and my faith tested, I resolved to be the last awake and never die, I walked up to the attic, and saw the light beaming from the window

            Sam dropped me off at the press grill so I could eat some grub,
then I met up with Tyler for a drink somewhere while he told me his story of meeting a guy in a skyline chilis bathroom drunk at 3 am, he said the guy was standing at the ****** but wasn't *******. Ty asked him if he was done and the guy put Ty in a chokehold with his pants down, according to Ty the cops came in and he was putting clean shots into the guys mug, he is contemplating leaving town before they can indict him for felonious assault, I told him Canadas nice but Venezuela doesn't have an extradition treaty, come to think of it neither does Cuba, but Ty is too proud for that probably
   anyways we meet Carly being a dancing beauty in a high falootin joint with string lights called Julep, the only reason to mention it is because as we were leaving a guy was bent over the rail vomiting and looking wretched he noticed us watching him as we smoked our cigarettes off to the side and immediately decided that he wasn't some kind of side show freak to be gawked at, he became threatening in the most base and pathetic way a human can, and his bride came to tell us to ******* with her father, father of the bride shaking my hand, we eventually left that scene and walked to Oddfellows where I saw Sam Cohan and he bought me a beer, good chap, we talked until I stepped toward Carly, Tyler and a fine looking strange *****
I touched Carly and received an awkward unmemorable introduction to the strange *****. She walked away but lurked and locked eyes with me as the evening rolled on
later Carly told me that the girl demanded to meet the guy who looks like Heath Ledger, a sure fire ****, so Carly is grinding on my **** and my backs to the bar and Tyler already got me a beer, and there I was, a pirate king
I took Carly out after the lights came on, and was going to give Tyler the run of my place, he disappeared into the night and I showed Carly my favorite smelling tree, a pink mimosa still in bloom late July, we almost ****** on my car, until I went back to her place and we ****** until $430, rising at noon, I left telling her we had an hour to get ready to journey to Findlay for Jim's wedding
I showered and brushed my teeth and collected my suit and put it on without a tie
I picked up Carly and set out upon the road, but made a quick stop for a bite
two deaf guys ordered in front of me and the kid working the register said my glasses were cool, along the way I was telling Carly the story of how I wore make up for the first time to a middle school dance, and she said she had to *****, I didn't believe her at first until she tried to stick her head out the window half way rolled down, I managed to get it down all the way and wet streaks of human gut waste caught the wind and splattered my window
we pulled over and I went to get her some napkins to clean herself off as I squeeged the car, she tried to wipe the window with the napkins, sweet girl. The wedding started at 3:30 and we didn't have more than five minutes to spare, she found her vape pen 20 minute out as Heather started to send me worried messages, as I was set to read a passage, little did I know that I was leading off the whole affair, I arrived and was quickly rushed to meet the mothers and have a boutonnière pinned to my lapel , the women all looked stunning and I congratulated each in turn as they shoved a program in my hand, Tiffany took me through the drill, we walked up to the stage and took our places on the bench, looking out at the beautiful shining faces,

I was the only one not wearing a tie, but thats not important, I saw Jim and embraced him with all the love I could muster, he looked at me and said that he knew I would make it, that he knew that he just had to trust the flow, and I would appear in the nick of time, the pastor threw his hands in the air and welcomed the families, the mothers lit candles, and then Tiffany looked at me and said that it was my turn, I stepped up to the Beema and gazed out over the crowd, trying to summon something clever, nothing good came to mind and so I opened my mouth and said, "a reading from Genesis" and then put every fiber of my being into reminding the room that it is Gods will that we be fruitful and multiply. I'm told I slammed my hands down for emphasis and let out a hearty amen, a man's man's amen, and turned and took one giant step off the podium with two baby stairs, I gracefully flowed into the bench having averted a complete embarrassment, and then tactfully left the stage with Tiffany after her read.   Jim looked at me after mine with a nod, and I said the word strong, that read cemented my status as a star of the party, and the mojo flowed, I was called the cash guy by the hotel, for checking in as Atlantis Grosshammer, $200 depost, we drank and danced and an old lady came to me to say that I have a beautiful soul
I thanked Jim's father for helping to create my friend, and danced around bottles
the cake was good
I told Carly I always catch the brides garter, at every wedding I've ever been. I saw Jim's men assemble for his toss, I let the men come and put myself in the mix, Jim turned his back and had a misfire,
the temptation to collect it passed all of us by thankfully, and he was set to fire again, it came to me and I snatched it out of the air, cold as ice I walked off the floor only with eyes for Carly not even saying a word to Jim, I put that thing on my head and went back to Jim threw him on my shoulders and swung him around like we were in a broadway musical
two kids playing in the street,
he said its the best moment, and so it goes
Jax levii Oct 2015
There was a creaking in her attic
The kind that settles in your bones,
Makes your heart flee when you have the thought.
Of facing it alone
Her mind made it an object
With each creak sending her numb
Like noise possessed a pair of hands
Wrapped tight around each lung
The world told her to fear it
"There's nothing good in the unknown"
And she wondered if they had ever faced,
The creaking of their own.
So she built herself a ladder
From the thoughts that screamed to stop
And she climbed it to the darkness
Waiting at the very top,
There inside her attic
Prepared to fight it to her death,
Her fingers shook against the switch
And fear gripped at her breath
As the light flickered above her,
Not a monster was in view
But a group of dreams she'd dare not have
In fear they'd not come true
The creaking in her attic
Had been a plea into her heart
A dare to face the unknown
And release them from the dark
Because you won't encounter freedom
If you give into your fright
Sometimes the bravest thing you'll ever do
Is just turn on the light.
Benjamin Apr 2018
It’s a little ways to Heaven
but the farthest place to travel—
out my window
through the alley
where you found me, collar broken;

there are mirrors in the attic
that you placed there to remind me
that a ghost can
haunt a dwelling
with a body and a heartbeat

well then maybe the horizon
stretches further than my bedroom,
past the street signs
and the shoreline
of the ocean, past the islands

where I thought I saw Orion,
on a hunt, perhaps, for something
and priceless
he could take back to Poseidon

in the end he came up empty,
(there’s a lesson in there, somewhere)
which is why I
haunt the attic—
I never cared much for the sea.
Nirali Shah Feb 2015
Rays of the morning sun
Encroached the attic
From a very notorious
Broken piece of window
Exposed the little specks of dust
In the rotting wooden walls.
Some sticking in the peeling paint
Some lying
On her mother's once famous cookbooks
Now being devoured
By selfish
silverfish and fungi.
The dust
Telling stories of her childhood
Settled upon the rocking horse
And her favourite little music box
And a carton full of holiday polaroids.
The dust
Such a dry commodity
Moistened some old memories.
Isn't it amazing?
February 10,2015
I wrote this little piece after a friend of mine suggested the word "Dust" to write about :)
Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial & jail seem almost

a Kiss in the Storm

(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
space populous & arching

A barn
a cabin attic

Your own face
in the mirrored window

fear of restroom’s
Tragic cold

I’m freezing


white wings of

grey velvet deer

The Canyon

The car a craft
in wretched

Sudden movements

& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless

The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker

Afraid of Wolves
& his own

The Wolf,
who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
& the cold men
who play there.

a ha
Come on, now
luring the Traveller
Mighty Voyager
Curious, into its dark womb
The graves grinning
Indians of night
The eyes of night
Westward luring
into the brothel, into the blood bath
into the Dream
The dark Dream of conquest
& Voyage
into night, Westward into Night
Bus Poet Stop Sep 2017
the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
dedication: for them, for us, for me
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland

— The End —