"homespun" poems
He declared himself a refugee, and ran away from his country
Running away from hunger and poverty, to the overseas,
He roams foreign countries from one place to another,
Chewing foreign fortunes of historical efforts,
Of blood and sweat shed by the fore(wo)men of those countries,
He is prostrate and defenseless to foreign languages,
Begging for sympathy to be made a citizen in Europe,
His rapacious appetite wedding his tongue,
Swallowing saliva on sight of European fortune,
Feating into mad appetite for sweat of others proceeds.
He burned the bridges on the way back to his home
Lest he be told the piffling of going back to his emaciated mother,
He changed his names to become a foreign native
Out of laziness not to fight for political and social change,
An imperative need of his motherland and fatherland,
Blind cowardice made him to over measure homespun folly
In the patriotic spirit of verve-less readiness
To die for political goodness of his motherland,
A (de)patriotic syndrome to only which
Hugo Garcia Manriquez sang a limerick
The best of all poems in his time of solitude;
(The fear of representation, of going back
to representation, that is,
to animosity)
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Hello old friend,
With your tall sweeping evergreens
Towering almost endlessly
Into a blue clear sky
The endless swell of traffic
Cars peeling down the street
The smell of roasted coffee beans
From some hole-in-the-wall cafe
The obvious transplant donning an umbrella in the Autumnal warm rain
The light sprinkling of water enough
To nurture the verdant green
Hello old friend,
Mt. Rainier, she greets me,
Looming ever majestically
Over expanses of tree and road
Her white peaks cresting over
Fields of blossoming flowers
The tulip fields scattered across the sloping
Skagit Valley, her vineyards spanning for miles and miles
Hello old friend,
Seattle's grungy nature
Masked by her streets of trendy
Cafes and farm-to-table restaurants
Her mom and pop cafes
Her canvas gray dress marred by graffiti
And street tags
The busker on the street corner panhandling for change
The homeless sheltering under a cardboard blanket outside of a Starbuck's
The transplant with the umbrella stopping down to drop change in their jar
The crumpled dollar
The locals who pointedly ignore him on their way to work, to school, back home, to somewhere...anywhere...
The constant dazed bustle
The stench and pungent odor of ****
Curling around every seedy corner and
Affluent street crossing
Hello old friend,
It's been a while
Let me nestle into your newness
A new coast greets me across the horizon
Replaced by homespun everything
Pastoral fields where the bovine and equine reside
Hello old friend,
I suppose you're home now
I suppose you're home...
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,
Young dawn of our eternal day;
We saw Thine eyes break from the East,
And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw Thee, and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do
To entertain this starry stranger?
Is this the best thou canst bestow—
A cold and not too cleanly manger?
Contend, the powers of heaven and earth,
To fit a bed for this huge birth.
Proud world, said I, cease your contest,
And let the mighty babe alone;
The phoenix builds the phoenix’ nest,
Love’s architecture is His own.
The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,
Made His own bed ere He was born.
I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow,
Come hovering o’er the place’s head,
Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow,
To furnish the fair infant’s bed.
Forbear, said I, be not too bold;
Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold.
I saw th’ obsequious seraphim
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow,
For well they now can spare their wings,
Since Heaven itself lies here below.
Well done, said I; but are you sure
Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?
No, no, your King ’s not yet to seek
Where to repose His royal head;
See, see how soon His new-bloom’d cheek
‘Twixt mother’s ******* is gone to bed!
Sweet choice, said we; no way but so,
Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow!
She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips
Her kisses in Thy weeping eye;
She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,
That in their buds yet blushing lie.
She ‘gainst those mother diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle’s eyes.
Welcome—tho’ not to those gay flies,
Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes—
But to poor shepherds, homespun things,
Whose wealth ’s their flocks, whose wit ’s to be
Well read in their simplicity.
Yet, when young April’s husband show’rs
Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed,
We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers,
To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.
To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
The shepherds while they feed their sheep.
To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King
Of simple graces and sweet loves!
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silver doves!
At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!
2.2k
exit bag
It's easy enough to peer through the underside of a hearse-
easy enough to **** those gears.
Easy enough to try it once or twice or give up or spit it out like a bad fruit.
Easy enough to shiver in bed
Easy enough to last it out and sleep all day
puff on the bag and go somewhere else
A quick, easy blur. Negation
hand in hand loyal love with sleep. A handshake, low,
tossed about with a final farewell, a quick gulp
in the arms of a surrendering light- a face-mask.
It's easy enough to stick it and last.
So level out with a spliff, take another chance-
a homespun remedy will extract the saccharine
days and take out the "too sweet" sweat of a poison
milkshake-
it's easy enough to do it quietly.
It's easy enough to have a pay-order-death.
Spit-up, a final Sampson barber drain. You'll never
sleep through another day if you put on
that exit mask and breathe
slowly until you can't
until the surprises stop coming
until the wounds stop laughing
until the only obdurate straight man will stop his act and take you home and lay you on a couch and drape a clean blanket over you like a white sheet
and cover your eyes with cloth and pennies and
gently weep when no one's making a joke anymore
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
warm and fuzzy like a big blanket
all draped like a Newfoundland flag
over homespun homesick ** Chi Minh
shoulders, shell shocked soul soldier
mmm 'ho yes 'tis truly the seed of Morpheus
lo good old blowhard old god of dreams
tho I sleep not
thru barely eye opened
lucid reverie
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
Like old
mean beetles,
like old
men in battle,
like egos: solid anvils,
like families: lethal weapons,
like these: them,
begotten sons
who begat daughters
of a land, of a bordered plot
on the globe, the dirt,
the house, the property
which begot
them
both,
these two
bitter enemies
from two
separate places,
furiously blaze,
as the time
for darkness,
is far
from arrived.
And the sun
quakes,
in its heat
rippling sights
and
knocking particles,
which deter the next
knocked,
and which enforce
the continued sensation of
warmth
continued,
of aversion
continued,
rising,
screened,
for its impeccable quality,
against
nobody in
general or
specific
to announce, or to gain
against
consequences, which are
soothsaid
in time,
nullified.
Partners afflicted will be less opportunistic
and more egalitarian,
but are sworn,
like the sun,
against the monotony,
of repetition,
of indistinct days;
like these:
them,
the enemies,
they
are
engaged,
aged,
unteachable
and
spoiled.
They are always
immersed
in
vexed
states,
always in competition.
Hope
is
the
souls
united
never again
as much
as the static,
single dimension,
alone,
impeccable,
impossible,
for its possibility
is drawn by He
who
spews forth
lumens
next to card sharks and Amazons, knowing these
will have to suffice, having no escape
from the projected
source
of energy.
The metal heads
of garden rakes,
weapons
thrown
at devils
in the sweltering heat
of hell,
the Inferno
that holds a
first-person
point of view,
a dream, alongside
superheroes, allied,
but who are,
nevertheless,
without their unique
and exceptional powers,
pros and willing deviants
from the celibacy,
the weight,
the unoriginal paint
that collides
in
each
stroke,
making what
appears
null,
and the array
but one,
and supposed,
so that then
are the weary
and soulful mergers
which corrupt
and meander throughout,
polluting,
as
it
were,
the tranquility,
the wrenched service,
of the destined
machine,
of a million
trajectories,
homespun threads,
woven
into
a
million
miserable
microfibers,
unanswered
queries
that were
held back
in
fear,
and
were
never
asked,
and remain
even
now
sorry.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
An abyss that echoes shrieks of eagles circling above:
the moon lies smashed in her sunken depths by nights,
this pit of enveloping darkness, a vessel emptied of life.
Brick by brick, aeons layer her walls, who knows when
she was dug? she carries fragrances of primordial waters
gathered in the heart of earth to the winds of the present.
Long before Joseph's well, she stood when desert land
was verdant wood, and before the earth was tread
asunder by the chariot, this graveyard of the stars.
Plunder she has seen, and abuse as she towers over the past.
Not a wellspring, emptied dry, but a bowl abegging.
The bowl that gave a creed to a continent?
Caravans pass by disgraced crevices remnant
of that era, gone long of stone. Effeminate, she pawned
her bricks over for a life. Or a well to collect the dead,
frightened by the hundreds by the colonial bullet.
Rise and fall, she carries in her wheel of life, her spoked zero.
Of which yet arises a homespun yarn of dreams.
Darkness wells forth from this abysmal chasm, and her
waters cause feuds by brother to brother. Men of straw,
of whom in a few years, no trace would remain,
yet remain and the dove that flew the night a tryst was made
still challenges the jacketed savant on Parliament square.
A pair of inverted eyes guard the gates of darkness.
And now and again, you see yet a star
shooting out to the skies again from the waters: to the moon,
a mushroom cloud, a circling satellite, and an octet notes.
She's not one well: her waters brackish, are
a thousand islands, that came together under the shadow
of an empire on whom the sun never sets.
Count the roots of the banyan, trees.
Her sons grow weak and lumpen. Her daughters rise.
And so she endures, this ancient mother.
In her depths, on the day, when the star of David is reversed,
she endures the ******** reversed, that shined in her of ages ago.
Of men, two quarters great, arise from the same shadow:
The eagle on the west, and the dove on the east.
The not is the all, the zero is everything.
Eternity, two zeros conjoined.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
when daily news
over weeks and months
reports events that far exceed
most people’s homespun nightmares
can we react as poets
and not be seen as cashing in on the sensation
like all the media have come to do without regret?
It may be wise not to give in
to the temptation to create *********** of violence
but try to just suggest the essence of catastrophe
a lonely high-heeled sandal on the roadside
one flip-flop much too small to fit adults
a tough man crying without shame
there are events for which we don’t have proper words
this does not mean we should keep silent
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Pan came out of the woods one day,—
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,—
And stood in the sun and looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded hill.
He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.
His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see so little they tell no tales.
He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.
Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than the merest aimless breath of air.
They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
And raveled a flower and looked away—
Play? Play?—What should he play?
1.5k
Definitely not the type of girl to plant
flowers on a window sill, the type to carry
softness on her shoulders or a desire to witness
hesitant, supernatural births of new morning suns with
enchantment. She was a trigger
aimed at empty clay pots, balancing
on balconies and devouring emptiness as if volume alone
would make her feel satisfied.
And her body held as much sentiment
to her as a graveyard, skin crawling in an empty house
she carried in her head. Everywhere she went
stormy impermanence concatenated
with the things she tried so voraciously to erase, like
tethers
tying her name down to insipid figures, like
beginning chapters of stories
she didn't want to hear
with a protagonist
too similar, too homespun,
to herself.
Perhaps she had intention of detonating in
her final, grand exit strategy, an elaborate move
where the Queen conquered escapism, but now
but now
no one will ever know.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
who says i can't bow
to my FATHER who
art thou in heaven
when i write about
marmalade trees and
stargazing skies
he knows everything i
am going to write even
before i dip my quill pen
in ink to rice paper
would he rather see
a happy child playing
make believe with
her imaginary friend
eating candy apples
than see man worshiping
money for his own lust
manipulating with a
deck of black cards
FATHER who art thou
in heaven, maybe my
station in heaven will
be decorating your
mansions in homespun
ivory silk puffs
sit and watch the children play
we feast on fine wines
and fruits not yet known
we listen to the harp and
the flute while the
children do somersaults
FATHER who are thou in heaven
you gave us choices to rejoice
in colors, scents and sounds
or the man in the dark pin striped
suits manipulating humankind
with a full deck of black cards
i am just blessed
i can sit with you
by my side and write
about marmalade trees
and gold stardust skies.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 8:55 AM UTC
I’m a fan of my own poetry
I think it is most fine
I cogitate on every word
I swallow every line
Of all the words I’ve written
I hold each poem dear
No matter stones that you might throw
Nor how rude your Brooklyn cheer
I’d rather read my words of wit
Upon a restroom wall
Than Suffer Will and Chaucer’s
Works; inside some fancy hall
Folks today never talk like that
That train left long ago
So give me five my brother
Make it high; or make it low
Come share my homespun wisdom
I don’t promise it will rhyme
But you won’t need a college sheepskin
To interpret every line
I write words plain and simple
So a child of nine or ten
Can enjoy every story
As he reads them in the den
And I don’t need no critic
To explain or to expand
What the words meant when I wrote them
Because they’re already plain
If I never sell a single book
Well that will be just fine
For I’m a fan of my own poetry
And will read you every line
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:57 PM UTC
Deep on the other side
of the loom .
The other side of
a dangerous smile.
Stands the one who
knows all my lurid secrets .
Barefoot in a homespun dress
one hand against the wall.
Water runs shallow
over the rocks
across the fields .
Crickets chirping in the
cool night air .
A thousand moments
swirl over us .
An ancient wind carries
our secrets.
Rolling waters ,
crickets in our ears
suddenly we were young
and in the mountains again.
Broken compromise
and forgiveness
to balance the passion
and the need .
Blood and roses ,
a sweet kiss from
the dragon .
Laughter is the lyric,
Love is the music
a watershed melody
that never gets old .
We are lost in the
recession of time .
As three quiet birds
try to throw shadows
on our love .
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
See the faded fabric, there?
The stitching pulled, the tattered thread?
The fabric of my heart is gone;
(I wore it Loud and Ostentate!)
Now, forlorn, I am without
Its quilted beat, that woven flag,
That banner of my hopeful youth;
(my sleeve is raw; the wound runs deep.)
Shall I ever find a loom
To weave another, just as loud?
Or suffer hence a make-do patch?
(some homespun thing, with burlap beat?)
Should I fashion on my own
A stronger, more defensive badge,
Breaking needles as I sew?
(A heart of Tin that does not bleed!)
Wait! What's this? O! Say it's true!
I grieve my loss too soon, it seems,
Upon this flight of errant heart.
(I wake from imprisoned dream!)
There's a seamstress caught my eye,
With linen pure, and gilded string.
She adds to this new heart some wings;
(my heart is prone to flight, it seems.)
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 5:46 PM UTC
Someone's speaking rhetoric - do they want
an answer? Maybe not and when you ask them
they seem to have forgot, in denial and afraid
of being on trial; biting sarcasm reduces one
To a spasm, two into a chasm and three has 'em
in a box, cornered like a nervous runnig fox
I'll hold off and have some compassion - I think
today I've given all my ration: greatness is
Born from tolerance, modesty, knowledge, intuition
and honesty but most important is knowing when
to administer a degree of each - am I good enough
to teach this homespun philosophy - of course not
Keep your thoughts to myself, don't bore you and me -
come back one day when you have your PhD
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
I walk down the street whisked by the fragrant aroma of a ***** floating above the clouds
Encased in venom but dismantled plumes of disembodied hair gave her a shroud
I saw in her minced reflection the swindled lust of a happy conclusion
To years of isolated rebarbative delusion
To serenade with penultimate swaggers as though I have been fully swooned
Too soon to aim my praise at an adoring moon
Tugging on mutual hearts entwined with the summer breeze
Trying to garner the summer heir and the summer flair
A panache to clothe every armed bear, disarmed by a propitiated care
A crisp lament crashes the party as a heckler gouging for blindness
I clinch a ****** anger as a riotous engine crafted from wineskins
Belonging to an ageless agelast scurried in dismay
I warp the warbled marble sleet a craven disarray
Then I clamber, risqué in fleeting moments a criminal repartee
I wallop the emerging consensus as the 16th hands me over dumped tea
And a ****** tree laughs as the whitewashed sanity of sanitarium ******
I swerve away from the indecency of a pepper enclosed in chosen wax
A gibbous shackle crumpled on a concrete semaphore
An erratic blithe minatory metaphor
Saturnine clout sweeps the dusty apron from the desuetude of homespun lethargy
Rampant clovers distilled from a dreamscape a raspy sea
Trespassing whisper surmounts the lambent alpenglow of a newborn sun
A sleek potter’s spell encumbered by a lapsed pun
Doors ajar and vats wed with an aimless spar
I finally see the fullness of majesty adorned as a breathing star.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
In God we trust but the economy went bust and we ain't got a crust of bread.
Got no lead in my pencil,no ink in my pen and I'm wondering when my memory's going to go.
and I'm getting slow,
I remember a time or it may recall me, when as a young man of twenty ,or two maybe three, I was wealthy and healthy and full of it all but then came the crash and I started to fall.
And I dropped,stopped being an earner, learnt to survive on week old stale pies and hand outs, the hand me down,the other side of life in any big town,
where you pay your trust to the temples of dust and the soup comes free,with a touch of religion on the crust of dry bread and sometime's I think that God must be dead.
We do as we do and we can't do no more and the poor will always be poured down the drain,thrown out of the door,not let in,begging on street corners,
don't they look thin!
They do as they do and they do it so well and they got us believing in a new branding of hell where the adverts pervert the minds of the young and that nothing good comes from it being homespun and the gun at your head is something to think of and, is God really dead?
Led to the queue and waiting in line for another strangulation,I am choking on time.
I want what's mine,give me my due
You own it all
for now.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
I carry an umbrella again
and find gigs to play
when soon my adherent of veracity
does connect mood with a thread
here her snooty wish now verbosity
and fill nights with vicissitude
that can still cling to virtual attitude
with a quasar if I can compose near
as a constellation tout direct ties there
though multitudes from clouds of authenticity
and ridden with adversity only good as Columbus
while a homespun manicure of bliss
will stiffen stations with thine air
and stake canvass in this future sound.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
God, what she stole from you—
compared not which she pillaged
from herself? Number One, her, inside
that homespun box who killed her spirit’s
glee and her spirit’s statuesque poise.
In this neck of fire worn woods, only the
deadly fashion ignited her survival instinct.
She ingested cells of dead air, trees, and animals—
perhaps a person who ached for one last breath.
She found at the bottom of the pit of fire,
a plight for a revolted woman who hungered for
a rebellion. She rode a double edge sword—
between a rock and roll vibrating razor. Ah…
She bloodied the banality of a rough and
tough ivy vine. The ivy spread despite her efforts
to prune the rabid growth. At sunset, her sand paper
castle collapsed with the spoken word of, “God help me.”
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Shadows
by Michael R. Burch
Alone again as evening falls,
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.
Up and down and up and down,
against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns—
we merge, emerge, submerge . . . then drown.
We drown in shadows starker still,
shadows of the somber hills,
shadows of sad selves we spill,
tumbling, to the ground below.
There, caked in grimy, clinging snow,
we flutter feebly, moaning low
for days dreamed once an age ago
when we weren't shadows, but were men . . .
when we were men, or almost so.
Published by Homespun and Mind in Motion. This poem was written either in high school or my first two years of college because it appeared in the 1979 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun. Keywords/Tags: shadows, dark, walls, evening, starlight, moonlight, men, souls, drowning, phantoms, shades
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 5:40 AM UTC
I’m frightened.
I try to follow the rules, but danger is contagious.
When you breathe, something breathes back.
When you start to truly feel the sun, the rain clouds settle in.
When I take a chance and smile at you, you don’t even see me.
When I try and tell you to protect yourself from me,
you unburden your chest before me.
When you try to take my clothes off, I don’t let you.
When I try to hold back from needing your skin on mine,
I give myself over to you and succumb to what I can do.
What we are always free to do and make and see and need and feel and
lust for.
When I tell you all my truths, you reply with homespun lies and
glistening dreams
far too slippery to hold on to.
When I donate half of my order to you, you run from the attention;
hiding out in the deepest shadows and insecurities that are threads in
relationships.
When you push me out and let me in, I only try to destroy your walls and
invade your lands.
When you make me feel like a woman in your eyes, I fear you in the dark;
where your hands are going, what you want today and what you’ll need
tomorrow.
When you lean in to kiss me, I can already feel the metallic tang of
blood on your lips.
When I get to pull you closer, it’s a second of spark and minutes of
emptiness.
When I desperately want to savour what you say, I can’t begin to make
the words stay still.
When I dream of you, I can never remember what it was about.
When you prepare yourself to invite another into your sacred spaces;
witness the shadows, the creatures of your thoughts, the past and the
present you,
you must also prepare to bleed.
Prepare to kiss back and notice the cracks in your lips.
Prepare to touch and notice the bruises beginning to burst beneath your
skin.
Prepare to love and notice the heart the begins to hurt and skip its beats.
I go to bed and wonder why I was never
obviously
good enough for you.
When she says no to you, think of me.
Because there are always two sides to every argument, every process,
every feeling.
And you are entitled to bear them too.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
*Call down the vultures to dine on something gray and homespun
Problems steadily sink in when you leave the blinds open
Unconscious plans recline in the garden of your home
Two vultures braced solid, arched in a bowl
The reeling air of melancholy is carved out alone*
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
I had a dream that I was bathing a fox covered in mud in an old antique tub.
The kind with eagle claws for feet.
When I was done I opened a window and set him down in the branches of a tree
and he took off through them, jumping from branch to branch and never looking back.
I was running with purpose down a beach.
Three others were with me.
We almost ran right into the trap they had set for us
but I saw their trick and turned us around
before the other wolves noticed us.
At least I hoped.
I walked into the Pearl Girls shop with all her homespun dresses and jewels from the ocean
The shop down the stairwell was stealing her ideas
but she couldn't leave to investigate.
She can never leave because he never comes to watch her most precious of things.
If only I knew how to make her happy.
I climb into a pink carriage pulled by a white horse.
I'm following a man all in black, in a black carriage, pulled by a black horse.
His top hat shadows his face. All I can see is his grimace.
He's hunting the wolves. My wolves.
I'll cut his throat open and let him bleed all over my white dress before I let him do that.
I must follow carefully and keep up the appearance of innocence
lure him in with my naivety. Make myself seem like easy prey,
to get close enough to sink my fangs into his throat.
I'll die before I let him hurt my brothers.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
...she kept her heart on a chain
never let it run mad like it was born to do
she kept her head in a box
never let it see the light of day
she has keepsakes for a heart
and romance novels on shelves
little dragons decorate her hallway
with little knights to slay them
natural and homespun as can be
she lives in her books
and lives for the day prince charming will come her way
she knits and tinkers her days away
always busy never stops
she is a model prisoner in her homemade jail
ever ready to pardon the thief for a kiss
ever ready to take the burden from the beast
she thinks someday will come tomorrow
and itll be better than promised
itll be sunshine cakes and sweet wine
and she will be done doing time for being a lover not a sinner
she kept her heart on a chain
and her head in a box
and never gave chase to the wild boys
now grown and old
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
She waited for ages,
for anything, some sort of sign
even just a flashing on the screen
a spasmodic vibration
but the message never came.
She thought she caught a glimpse
once or twice, in those eyes--such an aloof blue--
of something more substantial
crimson passion in his vain
anything to cling to
before her foothold gave way.
She was always dreaming
Reading signs
in the irises
figments of pigment
to color her translation
telling quite a different story
weaving a web of delusion
of homespun lies
and illusion
that someone so
selfish
could even graze the surface
of the outer shell of selfless
what an improbable
farce
what a
fool
she was.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 4:28 PM UTC