"cello" poems
* * * * *
* * *
*
Faces of friends, of people i met earlier
are glittering stars on this late evening's
dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed
in my mind...they're hunched, going
lower by the days...slowed down by years.
it must be hard and painful...the arching,
the drooping of the neck, the curving spine,
they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise
each new dawn...do what they still can do,
lest they stagnate in their aging ponds,
diminish to a state, where food, pills, or
forgotten information are forced on them,
......like drugs, injected into the veins
........................
these wee hours bring back the years...
they have been good...never mind the
hard times...there were, there are good ones
life is a long, wide stream of changing hues,
flowing on and on....my water bears the
colors each new day brings...gray, at times
with sadness and gloom....other days,
blacked by despair...some summers, red,
roseate with glee, or green with life and
hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and
the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm,
with a promise of stability..........white,
when accepting......the unacceptable...
........................
the amber grains and i, are alike
ripened enough to be plucked
be pulled out from an existence...the
signs are known...shown...yet, i wait
for when it is due to happen...and while
waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance
and enjoy the sun and wind...and i,
while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills
and valleys in this mammoth space
of land and water.............called life
...................
the sounds of my days, i still hear,
i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing
off-key.....out of tune at times,
my strings are my graying hair,
i still can't stop dying the gray
i still want to highlight the dark,
but, one day, all these will cease...
............
one night, my face will be in one of those
many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky
sending a smile, to my loved ones.
...................
(there is no other way,
but forward
all are headed
towards an end.)
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 26, 2018
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
Amid the smoke and light and laughter
Along the smiles and cheers thereafter
A sound is bled, wrung free from strings
It bounds and treads and wholly sings
Inside each song a secret moves
Not right nor wrong or frequent proved
The message dances from bow to ear
A coded trance of love and fear
From left to right the story rings
Of death and light the Cello brings
The covert tale engulfs the room
It vibrates truth to those who loom
The Cello knows for why it’s played
Its secret lost, both gone and stayed
Amid the smoke and light and laughter
Music lies and cries thereafter
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
*She's like deliquescent caramel,
the cool side of a pillow
to lay your weary head,
subtleties of springtime &
warmth in wintertide,
whispering hope upon lush
Zephyrus pipe dreams,
mellifluous nymph with wings
of a butterfly warrior,
softly determined,
unfailingly true-hearted,
whilst relentlessly ferocious
Wise, yet sometimes struts
blindly in the light,
as dulcet tones of a cello's
melodious marmalade
in sentiment's tender fancy,
she's beauty, charm,
knowledge, poetry,
utter strength,
& humane weaknesses,
she's twisted and ethereal,
her aura sublimely captivating
you may covet her body,
you'll never possess her soul*
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
In the hands of someone talented
The strings of a violin
winds of a flute
keys of a piano
can move you to tears
Just closing your eyes and letting the music flow
you can hear them all
Cello
Viola
Violin
Flute
Clarinet
Saxophone
Trumpet
Harp
Piano
In the hands of talent
you can be moved to tears
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings.
They wanted to cut you out
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty
but you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying
but they were wrong.
You are singing like a school girl.
You are not torn.
Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the central creature and its delight
I sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.
Hello to the soil of the fields.
Welcome, roots.
Each cell has a life.
There is enough here to please a nation.
It is enough that the populace own these goods.
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,
"It is good this year that we may plant again
and think forward to a harvest.
Many women are singing together of this:
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
one is at the aquarium tending a seal,
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,
one is at the toll gate collecting,
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,
one is straddling a cello in Russia,
one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,
one is dying but remembering a breakfast,
one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
one is wiping the *** of her child,
one is staring out the window of a train
in the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere and some are everywhere and all
seem to be singing, although some can not
sing a note.
Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let me carry bowls for the offering
(if that is my part).
Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me examine the angular distance of meteors,
let me **** on the stems of flowers
(if that is my part)..
Let me make certain tribal figures
(if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
let me sing
for the supper,
for the kissing,
for the correct
yes.
9k
Crawl to me on all fours, and fix me with those eyes.
Gleaming ivory in the pale darkness.
Suitored to alien mires, foreign environments of crawling dust and spires of simplistic grace.
That we move into.
That we move into as finger pads touch skin and lips and wet tongue tips that grace the very edge of taste itself.
The sonata of flesh has begun as we begin this symbiotic ballet that signifies the end, the start, but not the middle of our burning tryst.
which burns brightly in summer night heat, washing down the walls separating me from you and you from yourself.
Fix me with those eyes once more,
tilt the timer; make the moments slow
And the gas lit beam dance and grow
to our scaly sonata of flesh.
Played without violin
or cello
or trumpet noise
or flute.
But with arms,
and lips
and hair
and bust
and drums.
There are always drums; beating on through the night,
beating their primal rhythm as you crawl towards me,
on all fours, in that oroborus of lust;
symbiotic with itself,
reflecting off itself;
encased in itself.
Crawl to me on all fours
Crawl to me -
And taste of my being.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
Jay.
He was a nineteen year old high school dropout.
He was black.
He wore his hair in dreads.
He had a few nose rings.
He wore gold chains and expensive clothes.
He went partying every night.
He got drunk on alcohol but his drug addiction was the biggest problem.
He had a lot of friends.
Because he was ‘cool’.
He was the ‘man’.
Gray.
He was 18, finishing his final school year.
He was white.
He wore his hair very short.
He had large round glasses, sitting lopsided on his nose.
He wore a long sleeved shirt and trousers.
He studied hard, and he got good marks.
He played the cello in the school band.
But he was gay.
And so he didn’t have any friends.
But he had his family who he loved dear and who loved him back.
He was happy.
The differences between the two are unbelievable.
They are nothing alike; they are complete opposites.
Yet, they are human.
They walk the same streets, at different times.
They both live on the same planet, if not the same world.
They both have a right to live.
They both have people who love them, despite all they are.
It’s their differences that make Jay and Gray human.
Both of them.
Until Jay raised his gun and fired three times at Gray.
That’s when Gray was lost to humanity.
And Jay had lost his humanity.
Coz Jay shot in the chest a boy named Gray
Killed him without giving him any say,
The boy who did no wrong, but was gay,
With his life, he had to pay.
His family cried in despair and dismay,
For their loving son had been taken away,
And now they all sat in silence,
For Gray would never see another day.
For souls who have had their lives ripped apart, and those who rip their lives apart, we pray.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
Me, I play the piano
said one
me, I play the violin
said another
me the harp, me the banjo
me the cello
me the bagpipes, me the flute
and me, a rattle.
And they talked talked
talked about what they played.
No music was heard
everyone talked
talked talked
and no one played
but in a corner one man remained silent:
"And you, Sir, who remain silent and say nothing,
what instrument do you play?"
the musicians asked him.
"Me, I play the barrel *****
and I also play the knife,"
said the man who until now
had said absolutely nothing
and then he advanced knife in hand
and killed all the musicians
and played the barrel *****
and his music was so true
and so lively and so pretty
that the daughter of the house’s owner
came out from under the piano
where she lay bored to sleep
and said:
"Me, I played hoop
ball, chase
I played hopscotch
I played with a pail
I played with a shovel
I played house
I played tag
I played with my dolls
I played with a parasol
I played with my little brother
with my little sister
I played cops
and robbers
but that’s over over over
I want to play assassin
I want to play the barrel *****
And the man took the little girl by the hand
and they went into towns
into houses, into gardens
and killed as many people as possible
after which they married
and had many children.
But
the oldest learned piano
the second, violin
the third, harp
the fourth, the rattle
the fifth, cello
and they all took to talking talking
talking talking talking
so that no more music was heard
and all was set to begin again!
7.2k
Can I write you a love song
I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long
Blow gently without words on my saxophone
Diamond and Pearls behind the throne
A beautiful ensemble meant for only you
As I give credence too
Take my hand
Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands
Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands
Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift
Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts
I’ll sing love songs of old
A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul
I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms
Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn
Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem
A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings
Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring
I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now
Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow
Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes
Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon
Destiny overcasts in the lyrics
Fate floating stratospheric
Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric
Opera, I give you so grand in its grace
French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace
Sounds of my flute resonant to face
Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace
Can I write you a love song
Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong
My guitar stringing your philosophies along
An equal equation, one plus one equals two
Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you
No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies
Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please
Orchestra sounds
Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound
The last note sung by me as we gradually come down
Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound
Shh, close your eyes
Meditate on the music for a little while
Hush sweet baby don’t say a word
My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird
If that mockingbird don’t sing
Can I write you a love song created only for your being
As minds are sightseeing
Hearts fleeing
Timpani drums guaranteeing
Entwined of our divine wellbeing
Emotions freeing
Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long
Can I write you a love song
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Like a clockwork's rhyme
they grow on him,
the soft moan of her heels.
Here she comes, they tell him
as they gently pry loose
of her tender feet.
A quiver is set into motion
like strings of a cello
consumed by touch
every time her voice breaks free
like a fugitive
from its own abode.
The visiting breeze crosses by
the slow hum
of her breathing,
and carries the gasps
in hurried echoes
to remind him she's checked in.
A mischief rolled into smile
escapes her lips
to touch a heart so shy,
only to leave it
and **** with pain
while making it a willing alibi.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:39 AM UTC
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
Mean but resisting
Love stronger possessing
His charm I was Divinely
touched by his spirit
I want it so easy to flaunt it
"Both Suited" Black tie affair
Smoking out the joint
What a dangerous pair
Darker than any smoke
What's the point??
Going to blow devil words
Angelic Paradise birds
Do we have this planned out,
what do we see? He's not suited
Cruel 2-B ****** life is dark
but **** good easily taken
Fruit of the soul mistaken sliced
and parted
Paint's it Graffiti hood
Careless ****** up to him
Reckless my lips played
him hard
Smoked killed me off-guard
He sneaked around the fruit
Strawberry strange pursuit
My soul this is the last straw
Deadly strawberries beguiled
by the??
Strawberry smells of the
black rose
All covered seductively posed
The song plays out strawberry
With solitude voiced by
Soprano wine by the bucket
of deep red "Gallo"
Intense smoking love incense
Smoking jacket cuddled me
cello
Strawberry sounds smothered
Good night dark strawberry moon
I grabbed him way too soon
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
Hello noise
Hello voice
Hello written
Hello choice
Hello vice
Hello might
Hello mint
Hello cello
Hello yellow
Hello find
Hello mind
Hello bite
Hello bruise
Hello nerd
Hello ****
Hello world
Hello heard
Hello hand
Hello match
Hello friend
Hello chance
Hello thunder
Hello melt
Hello riddance
Hello resistance
Hello stance
Hello flash
Hello mash
Hello mask
Hello fellow
Hello mellow
Hello bend
Hello mend
Hello Kitty
Good-bye man
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
It’s so easy to feel so small
I’m on a bus, the last one that runs on a Wednesday night,
Sketching a tired face
Bags under the eyes, made of black ink
I’m eavesdropping on a conversation,
(Does it count as eavesdropping when
There are only two people speaking in an otherwise
Silent bus?)
My heart’s been having an existential crisis,
And my stomach and chest
Empty
Yet heavy
Someone’s hands are holding my insides
And squeezing them in a fist
It is exhausting
It is lonely
In my right ear is this beautiful song
Violin and cello and
A raw passion that reminds me
That it’s okay
To be human, and to be scared shitless
I’m still listening, partly
But not really
It’s late
I want to sleep
Busses are full of zombies-
Phone, earphone, unsmiling zombies
And despite the
Tired sketch on my lap
I’m one, too
The conversation slows
I smile
I turn and I recognize the face in front of me
I’m told that this person, vaguely familiar face, whose conversation
I’ve been eavesdropping on remembers one of my poems
About stars
And the line is on his wall
A line from a poem that I wrote
About stars
Is on someone’s wall
Even better than when Chad Oliver told me I was
Quite attractive junior year of high school,
And I remember writing that poem
And I feel a little less useless
I want to cry
My body hasn’t known what to do with itself lately
You see I exhausted myself in love
And now that it’s gone
I feel useless
My heart pulls towards mediocre sketches
First sips of coffee in the morning,
Listening to the violin
It doesn’t know what else to feel for
It’s been left in this dark room
Grasping for a table,
**** even a stepstool,
Heartbreak is exhausting
Because it’s not just the heart
And it doesn’t really break
It just has to re-learn how to feel
But I get off the bus
And the night is warm,
The moon is
Beautiful,
This white-hot luminescence
Burning through the silhouettes of trees,
So bright the sky is still blue 6 hours after sundown.
I open my palms up to her
I see the stars
I open my palms up to them
They guide me home
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Here above the spider’s bed
Balanced on a tiny thread
Soft the sound his cello plays
In harmony with summer days
~
Melodically he moves his bow
In mystic motioned rhythm’d flow
O’ the cast of crescent moon
Illuminates his wondrous tune
~
A thousand dragonflies appear
His cello sound they long to hear
Now as he plays this mellow song
A cricket choir sings along
~
The audience in grand delight
Embrace the magic on this night
For as all earth has come to know
No sweeter sound than his cello
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
Never once had I played the cello.
I thought the violin sounded much more lovely.
And then I saw you.
No... I heard you.
Such a mysterious sound.
Inviting.
You drew me in with your tunes of promise.
You tempted my loneliness with a single flick of a string.
When I cried... your music was my lullaby.
The sound of your tune, no matter how made up it was...
For one meaningless moment, I was safe.
And even in this crowded world.
The busy streets, and the panics of my heart..
You wrapped yourself around me.
You became so much more than just strings.
I noticed how smooth your body was.
And what I thought was a hollow inside, held a heart.
And as I listened to it beating, I knew that's when it would all fall apart.
Because a cello, it has to put on a show.
A cello requires an audience, not one person alone.
So the music that quickly became home to me, could never be mine you know.
The cello it now haunts me.
It sounds sad and brings tears to my eyes.
The strings, they now feel lonely.
The sound, I almost despise.
But the music my cello played for me...
I'll try not to let it tear me apart.
I may not know what love is,
But music is a piece of art.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
Finding solace
tears to my eyes
joy
sorrow
in something so simple
as a cello or violin
emotions they hurt
but are so lovely
feeling, cherishing each one
for it means I am alive
overcome by it
whispering of trees
a smile
sweet dreams
every sight and sound
screaming its own emotion
hey you!
yes you
I am alive
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
My early memory of farm,
Blackfella’s hill, banana sand,
exploring, chasing rabbits.
And riding round with grandpa,
in the white and well loved station wagon
checking sheep, windmill and chooks.
The lollies in the tin were there,
to help him stay awake at night;
but grandchildren were once allowed
to sample from the tin of treats,
in longer trips with grandparents,
while out on country roads.
The farm, a favourite place of mine,
away from school and normal life,
but Modb’ry North not quite the same.
With grandpa still out shearing though,
the farm-like feel not far away,
and granny kept a strawb’rry patch.
I went a-shearing with him once,
About six customers that day
and I can’t count the load of sheep.
I earned five dollars on that day,
while travelling around in ute
with shearing stuff all in the back.
His love of music satisfied,
the grandchildren are all gifted,
the music played from instruments
of cello, clarinet and bass
of flute, piano, violin,
and voice as well from Kate and Jo
Called grandpa day or dad or Doug
he’ll be remembered, days to come.
The stories will be told and told
of happenings while he was here,
from farm or Modb’ry North or else,
from other places he has been.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 11:01 AM UTC
**Welcome back, my Emerald Gem!
Precious is your Hibiscus stem
Which is full of love to the core
My Sis I love you forever more
My Emerald Gem, I love you
I always wish to give you my happiness when you feel blue
Thank you so much for being such a lovely Sis
My dear, I wish I could give you a hug and kiss!
I wish I could give to you a bouquet
Of every flower that would sing to you each day
That way you would always be happy
As you play your Cello loudly and clearly
I wish I could give to you a Hibiscus crown
To grace your head, while you dance in your gown
To the sweet song of your Cello
With sweet songs Classical and mellow
I want to say to you
Welcome back, my Sis never feel blue
Welcome back, my Emerald Gem
Precious is your Hibiscus stem!**
~Marian~
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
She sits in her chair,
The wood touches her neck,
She looks at the ground,
Terrified of regret
Looking at the crowd
Eyes of curiosity
Can she make a sound?
Ignore the blasphemy?
Slowly but surely,
With hesitant hands,
She throws up her arm,
And she starts up the band
She raises her bow,
And when it touches the strings,
The world is amazed
By the beauty she brings
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
i wanted more from him
than enjoying my pizzicatos
while bringing me to crescendos
but it seems
our love may
have already reached
its forte without ever
breathing in its
diminuendo
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC
With a cursory press of a key and arco of the strings,
They look at each other,
Determining when to start through what looks like telepathy,
But it is instead the subtle movement of arms and chest.
They begin.
With the movement of bows bouncing on metal,
And the dancing digits upon black and white,
Sound reverberates between the audience,
With eyes and ears in tandem absorbing the scene.
They continue.
As they pass over bridges,
And draw out waves with their hands,
I listen,
Swaying and breathing and performing as though I am beside them,
Despite being above them,
Yet feeling so below.
Becoming one with their instrument,
And bringing me along,
I smile,
As just like they pull beauty out of their tools with their soul,
They guide joy out of me,
For all of us.
They end.
Then again, they start.
With new sounds from a new person,
With new intent,
And new methods.
They change.
From haphazard joy and dance,
To somber death and confusion,
They become one with the music,
And follow in its suit.
They continue, anew.
As the sound changes,
So do I.
Listening with sharper ears,
Hoping to catch a different magic in my ears.
They continue, still.
As the cello draws honey,
The violin; its dew,
And the piano waterfalls arpeggios,
I am content.
They end.
Full of the food of life,
They stand,
To let us feast with them with our hungry hands,
Giving our own vibrations to fill our drooling souls.
They leave.
And so do I.
Both of us fed and quenched,
From the performance.
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 3:33 AM UTC
Juliette's back
is a shapely cello.
Her hair trailing softly
plays a deep, sad,
mahogany melody.
'La musique malheureuse'
her soul whispers.
But in the morning
she will stretch out,
throw the curtains wide
and light will shine through her.
When she speaks
her harp-like heart
will play a pretty tune.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
*Cheer up, my sweetest Sis
Even though we are miles away we are so near
The bonds of love that we give each other
Make us seem so near
Please, my dearest you are my inspiration
So please, I beg you not to cry
And if I could play the harp for you and make
It's songs all sunshine and joy dedicated to YOU I would!
I'm happy now, my sis for
My Dad has been thinking a lot of your Cello
And how it's songs sound so pretty
And I've been thinking of the same
We spoke about your Cello just last night
And how all Cellos sound so pretty
And about Harps and Bassos we spoke
We talked about Trumpets and all kinds of instruments
Spoke about their beauty
And I still wondered how your Cello would sound
But I know it would sound very pretty and sad
Because I've heard Cellos before but none played as beautifully as yours!
That I know! And all I've said about you is true, SWEETEST Sis
And I understand your passion for all animals and can't
Stand when they get hit on the road
I can't stand it either so I can relate
If I could walk with you through fields of flowers,
Walk with you by the sea, pick some hibiscus blooms,
And listen to your Cello songs I would do so
But I feel so sad. . . and I am sickened at what I've done
Just look! I've made my sweetest Sis sad!
Oh, my Sis if only I could dry your tears
So let this poem comfort you, my Love
Please, feel happy
And know this if I could play Harps,
Cellos, Trumpets, Flutes, Violins,
Celestas, Chimes, Bassos, and the rest
I would, to make you happy and smile
What can I do, sweet Sis to make you smile?
If I were to play the Piano would your tears turn to smiles?
If I were to make an Hibicus Crown to grace your head,
Would your tears turn to dew?
If I were to walk with you by the sea would your tears turn to laughter?
What can I do to make you happy, my dearest sweetest Sis?
If I were to take you to Fairyland would you be glad
Instead of sad?*
~Marian~
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Chrissie dried after her bath,
towelled under arms and legs,
a radio played from the other room,
cello sonatas, Bach,
Delia listened,
played a pretend cello
drawing an invisible bow
across invisible strings,
she'd played this that time
to that music teacher at college
before having her(sexually)
in her student bed,
Chrissie dried between thighs,
eyed her mirrored self,
plumpish, pink of skin,
love bites where Delia
had ****** and ******
Delia drew the bow slower
as the music slowed,
head to one side,
invisible cello
between opened thighs,
smiled, the woman
her father hired
to care for her
at term breaks
from boarding school,
Delia has seduced
and bedded in the first
Easter term,
Chrissie dried
between toes and feet,
towelled a final area
of skin, stood,
washed out the bath,
the Bach flowed on,
cello sounds,
recalling Delia moving
over her body like a snake,
tonguing over and over,
Delia closed her eyes,
the cello stilled,
invisible bow
blown away
like leaves in wind,
she lay back
and waited for Chrissie
to return, bathed,
dried wanting her
*** to heat
and burn.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC