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Keith J Collard Aug 2012
Colonial mansion, in an ocean of grass,
windows aglow as I walk past.
funeral service now used of verandah,
but I hear music, not mournful stanza.
french doors open to a reminisce,
with boyhood heart, of vitreous.

Footfalls on parquet floors,
tux and gown past crown moulded doors.
captured ambiance of a setting sun,
shown from chandeliers highly hung,
day I was born, born the day of prom,
I smiled cordially, and my date fawned.

Girls betrothed by corsage on wrist,
rare french curls--a lunar eclipse.
bedraggled boys now dapper and genteel,
vest and bow-tie, a knightly feel.
chapperesses smiling at maidenly gait,
happy drowse in  mansion estate.

Cuff-links, silk gloves, nail polish of gloss,
beheld tonics and sweets, carefully aloft.
opening cord, an arrow from cupid's bow,
striking coquettes to their tippy toes.
they sprang to dance,I stepped back,
invisible in shadow with tux of black.

Shoulders, lake ripples easing to shore,
hips, gentle waves, right before they pour.
boys stiff, as if waists beheld sabers,
legs, sweeping brooms of on shore waiters.
"your too handsome to stay here unseen,"
said rivaling chaperess, past semblance of queen.

"You should dance ,"said glittered lips of pink,
bent like sparrow wings, during teacup drink.
privy to why in shadow I hid my blush,
her class my crush, that crushed me so much.

She strained me, even the shadows she gave,
black silk, stretching,--convex and concave.
crude metal and wood classroom seat,
clasped her waist of slender physique.
she was guarded by a window in curtain mail,
and tended to by servants of light and gale.
light loved her skin of Mediterranean sand,
and wind enthralled by each and every brown strand.

Light penetrated strands, blondly hot,
wind would blow, cooling pony tail off.
her shadow curtsied under my desk,
long legs danced in irritableness.
mourning class is abuzz with scent of prom,
flower not frost, rules the school's dawn.

I gave my consent, to an earlier invite,
then on, suitor blinded me with light.
and Great Gatsy, and looming prom night,
subjects of sparrow wings pressed tight.
" show of hands, who do not have a date?"
slender wrist arises, from an arm curvate.

alone, she shown that no one asked her,
this stone of Rome amongst boys of plaster.
hand fell with boy of teachers match,
wind shrouded her,from the window sash
rays gave discomfort,to gaze her way,
but I looked through burning ray--

To see a trace of a tear,in eyes ovate,
a goddess unsought, with sadful face.
I, poor, fatherless, could not possibly go,
to prom with princess of arched portico?
I could not interweave my hands to dance,
or know where I could place my glance.

Wind blew a scrap from her desk, indiscreet,
it was pierced by light at my feet.
"will" and "with" were dotted with a heart,
"prom" and "me" before most painful part.
my name in her beautiful free hand,
the color red from hearts inkstand.

(Class bell rings) I travel over star lit lawn,
the music gets louder as I return to prom,
eyes turn to cotton, in shadow as I ponder,
as pain was forgotten, I came upon her.
invisible hands, lifted my chin to a red shape,
our eyes met, her's smiling, mine agape.

Only a glass-maker could imagine my sight,
seeing hot curves form in dance floor light.
only a wax-wing could have rivaled her eyes,
waves gently broke to gown down her thighs.
"will you dance with me,"she softly entreated,
" I don't know how,"a coward repeated.

A princess which tournaments were held,
for which every timber of mansion were felled.
not for Rome the mansion's Corinthian column--
--for her--from quarry prom did befall them.
I could not tarnish this feminine form,
with my lineage in crown she adorned.

I turned from beauty, to dark acres tread,
under willow, I play the last thing she said--
my name--as I shunned from last chance,
now back under willow, cane marks my stance.
I have preserved her forever, shying fate,
even if it was with my own heart-break.

I still see her--in the most beautiful prom poses--
--still--as lights flicker out and a coffin closes.
Halli Ally Ellis Sep 2010
I don't know what it is,
when you come around,
that makes my heart flop upside down,
the mooshy gooshy feeling inside,
I'm weakened defenseless,
ready to hide,
in your arms is a safe place,
I don't want to leave,
or speed up the pace,
sweet, smooth, calm,
what could this be?
The feeling inside of me won't let me leave,
I crumble around you,
accepting every word you say,
the night spent together turns into day,
what could this be?
Maybe love?
      no, not me.......
Mary-Eliz Mar 2018
"There's the little girl with green hair!"

She Runs
She Hides
She Cries

Aunt Mary Lou's visit...
Every time!
She weighed 300 pounds
the "fight" wasn't fair.

~Looking back would love to ask why?
Is it fun to make a little child cry?~

"Orange hair
orange freckles
and your eyes, too."

"No they're not! Stop it!
That just is not true."

She Runs
She Hides
She Cries

Big sisters time and again!
Big sisters jerking her chain!

~Later years..."Didn't you know we were just jealous?" says one.
Oh, she should know that, but you didn't know better,
it was okay when you would make fun??
even though you were older,
ganged up on her, too
making her cry
making her blue?~

So I ask...

Is it any wonder redheads are feisty?
Well, this one sure is!
Feisty and fiery, proud of it, too
Look out, her sharp tongue
could decimate you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No, not really. She's soft as a kitten
mooshy like most of the stuff she has written
BUT
if it's needed the feisty comes out
she will use it plus fiery to muster some clout
SO
Do not, whatever you do,
do not give her crap
I'm warning you
do not make this Ginger Snap!
The title is on a T-shirt I want to get.
Nowadays I'm proud to be a member of that rare 2% of the population!
T R S Mar 2019
I never knew a motor who had held it's blade so low
I'd never known a cutter who had deep cuts that They would show.

Never in a million years would sheer hair tear a part of me.

Your hair was brown.
And mine was black.

But gray is all I see.

All I can see is two people.
Two old fleshbags wasting food

All I see is the church we built.
The gooey stoop that held our mood.

I'll only plop a squat when concrete hell is mooshy met.
I'll only forget my god and dog, when my preacher is my vet.
Saegly Jan 11
I crave spirituality.
Causing me this dichotamy.
Give me the feeling of stealing my autonomy.

Can you help make me feel alive?
I know how to bring me to life.
Like when I'm crying and dying at night's when I thrive.

I would like to feel warm inside.
Feeling mooshy and gooshy like
When I feel unsafe, feel your hate, leave me to die.

Sometimes I feel like I'm burning.
Why do I love to be hurting?
Your attention is life. Pain and strife always flirting.
It's easy to mistake manic episodes as some deep, divine feeling, but your brain is running on strong coping mechanisms that can turn the very bad, hurtful things into something you feel you deeply need. This is not true, and you can get better.

— The End —