"rosewood" poems
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates
My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess
My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming
Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves
My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that
So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
how does one go about expressing their love to a girl?
I've never felt like this about a girl, before
but everything - my heart, pounding and vulnerable and so impossibly fragile - now seems to depend on
her.
her laughter is like the colour yellow
and it turns my vision hazy every time
the expression she wears is innocent and unassuming
but those hazel eyes are white-hot fire
she's got this rosewood hair that floats around her, ethereal,
her hands are gentle, delicate
her heart is so full of love
her arms, filled with kidness
she turns the blood in my veins to crackling flames.
look at her mouth.
what can I say. how can I vocalize this kind of want. this kind of hunger.
I'd never tell. no, I'd never say a word.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
We lived briefly outside and at once
all of our one lives one innocuous evening.
I think it must’ve been a round ten.
We’d gone, really and already, in every sense,
a-stoop-smoking to clear the air of Murakami
and his personal identity. I guess we knew
we’d end up breathing significantly
before time came to shepherd us back in.
On the stoop, aglow in rosewood smoke,
in the streaked light of our chosen nostalgia
and strawberry hope, we pointed to things
we really saw—everything—pressing their
dimensions sharp through the buttery plaster
of our personal identities, like certain words
I happened to glimpse, in and out of Murakami.
I was startled when a car cut through the viscous
street in front of me like a hand underneath a piece
of cloth. It bent still shadows around a perfect
globule of movement and returned each to rest
only after each of its past moments had passed.
That’s when I saw my smoke trail slowly leave me,
unapologetically, heading across the invisible prairie
on its horses to drink by the bending river in the street.
It asked me if I knew, now, why I should come along.
I pointed and asked: What was that I just saw?
Where?
There by the street. What was that?
Oh, that was just
antlers on a fire truck this past Wednesday.
I don’t understand.
Of course you don’t. You won’t remember I said it.
Then why’d you say it?
To remind you you’ll forget.
Oh, I see. Thank you, then. I was about to
forget I’d forget. Now I know
I never will.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Though glass, it is rimmed with gold
around the cup, handle and even the
saucer. Skilfully painted chrysanthemums
of various shades; the vermilion horizon,
Spring's honey, songbird's magenta,
sangria's fine wine, a parakeet's breast
and the Aegean sea.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And then, there are three sightly tea
caddies with lacquered wooden bodies;
one rosewood with red dancing fans,
one burr-oak with golden mountainous
landscape and one maple wood with
green bamboo. Ainhana gently removes
each of their lids by using the cloth, and
presents the pearls that were wrapped
in sun-kissed foil.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
She first lifts the rosewood caddy towards
me. I close my eyes and focus on the scent.
Without peeling back the foil, I know. It takes
me to the far distant Province of Yunnan,
past the snow-kissed mountains and rice
terraces to a very still lake. I noticed that
it began to bubble before a large splash
rose.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
At that moment, I meet the lake's Guardian,
the Imperial Wingless Dragon of legend.
With its wet emerald-kissed scales drinking
the sunlight. It's great body now entwined
in a wispy clouds as it stares at me with
eyes of liquid moons. Its tail crowned
with a peacock feathered eye-spot whips
around in the air, leaving an iridescent
trail of colours.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
With a great leap, he soars through
the air, trumpeting his great roar
that rattles the skies. Just as quickly
as he rose, he descends down with
a Pearl Moon in his brown claw. By
the stroke of its sienna-brown whisker,
the small Moon cracks, presenting me
it's contents, a long kept secret.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
The pearls are the colour of seaweed
with streaks of yellow and burnt umber.
With earthy notes whirls around my
nose, along with some floral sweetness,
burnt caramel licks, dragon spice and
a wisp of apricot. Ah, so I see! One great
guarded secret that he reveals to me!
His best pearls ferment in the womb
of the Moons! Purified by the Star
Virtues of Elysia's Harmony!
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Wonderfully rich Pu-erh Pearls,'
I say, my eyes now open.
'My Lady's nose is as sharp as ever!'
'I just know my tea,' I chuckle, 'it's
very unique in smell and taste. I will
save such fine broth for another day.'
Ainhana nods, places on the tray and
lift the burr-oak caddy. I close my
eyes once again and my mind
wanders yet again.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
I wish
It were Christmas
Because I love the frenzy
And excuses it brings.
It's a beautiful
Excuse to not do
The ******* things
In life that we spend
Our lives doing.
The fairy lights
Entwined in the trees
Cross continents
With the buzz
of electricity.
I wish it were
Christmas because
It brings the beautiful
Excuse to love
Extravagantly.
Just as we love
The icy daisies
Of spring I love
The warm branches
Of bare Christmas Trees
I wish it were Christmas
Because I want to
Hang the rosewood
Baubles round
And see the glitter of sequin
Bunting strung happily
About the bedrooms.
I love the beautiful
Excuses brought
In the gifts bought
And how love is sieved
Through in the snow.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
.
1
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.
2
I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?
3
Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.
4
At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.
5
My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.
6
What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.
7
My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.
8
Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.
9
Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.
10
Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.
11
My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.
12
At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.
13
I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
.
1
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.
2
I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?
3
Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.
4
At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.
5
My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.
6
What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.
7
My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.
8
Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.
9
Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.
10
Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.
11
My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.
12
At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.
13
I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
I live in a paltry cottage,
with a cosy fireplace
and rosewood floors.
It offers me solace
and isolation and yet
my happiness seems
to have lost its way.
Then,I gaze outside at
the brook that welcomes
the sunshine like a
ship on a dock.
I gaze and gaze and
Gaze until I can't anymore.
Across the brook is my happiness
amongst the wilderness,
that fades away into
nothingness. And here
I am, on the dark side,
with grey clouds and
thunder and how it
roars like a sad
crow who doesn't
know how to fly
Anymore. My eye
lids droop and I
want to forget that
I no longer feel joy
inside my heart.
I want to forget the
bitterness that has
resided from the start.
All I feel is loneliness.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Seeing
Life
Explode
With Color.
To
Name
Them all
Would
Never
Fully
Describe
The magic
They emit
With
Each other.
Lemon butter,
Jade tide,
Bumblebee,
Butterscotch,
Pineapple Rush.
Blush Touch,
Pink-Peach Punch,
Lemonade Crush,
Cedar Peaks,
Cinnamon Coffee
Crunch.
Wine Soaked
Cherry Red.
Rosewood Sublime,
Key lime pie
Delight.
Followed by-
Gray Mist
Overcome
By Balloon Green,
A breath of Spring,
And Sunglow too.
It all runs
Through
And
Through.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
you tried to feed
me stardust
sway and hold me
as we danced
you tried to make a home
out of me
open my shutters
let the light
flood inside
push sheer magenta
curtains aside
you tried to run
your fingers reverently
over my rosewood
you tried to ***** my home
raise it from the island
kiss my lips after broken
storms hold my hands in your own convince me that you replaced my old
broken doors
peeling paint and vinyl siding
you tried to
feed me stardust
sway and hold me
as we danced
you tried to make
a home out of me
but I was really an island
ready to be claimed
by the fire and the sea
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
--------------------
When red ran from the sand.
From the depths, rose a creature quite old.
Solemn and slow, not a care to be bold
It anchored itself, and gave no expression
The strength of its shell, shook in depressions
Tall extensions: its lifeblood, its protection.
Found scattered, on its shell, in cert’n sections.
The pride of Madagascar—the creature by name—
Are Rosewood and Ebony now mangled and maimed.
--------------------
When red ran from his hand.
Trees are felled, and the humans displace:
Lemurs are losing, they can’t find their space.
Hear the creature wail, its shell echoes with grief—
The sounds of its guests, find little relief.
For its pride is valued, and cut for a price
Hard decisions made—it is life’s device.
Wooden splinters bite back trading flesh to save flesh.
Living masses are caught in our culture’s great mesh.
---------------------
When red in hand and land.
Oceans to flood, new depths to behold
Our desires to fill, balk: “Don’t let them fold!”
She tires of our, meandering session;
Beating-out paths, to varied oppressions.
Laugh at the onslaught, of one great convection!
As humans propel, in that direction…
In all this, Gaia shrugs, naked-apes are to blame.
Fruiting, of hand and land, need-be one and the same!
---------------------
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
It was a highway that brought me here
Stuffed into a expensive car with four adults and good music
We drove for what seemed hours
Arriving on the slick, black streets of the Emerald City
Down a rabbit hole of old cars and termite ridden stairs
Past an old couch and a stray cat
Into a cold room with heaters stacked and jumbled
Full of pianos and good and beer
People I've known for twelve years
And people I've met only once
People I don't know
Different skins, of their own, of animals
Frizzy and cropped hair, wine and mason jar glasses
Walls painted silver, gleaming under forty year old lamps
Mismatched furniture and occupants alike
Sirens singing in the background
Children running through the foreground
Old friends and a blind man with a big dog
Visual artists and IRS agents
Musicians and carpenters
Mechanical engineers
Cobbled together around and old fireplace and a rosewood piano
Sharing stories and songs, sons and daughters
Tales from the road, and wedding pictures
I sat on an orange pleather couch in the makeshift kitchen
Watching theses people's children play with bionicles and dolls
Reading books and drawing on walls
Playing drums and answering calls
Fighting for bathroom stall
These are my people
I know them all
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage;
She would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a bouquet
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still ?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it come into the picture?"
And the picture failed completely.
2.1k
Brushwork
If I were a jazz pianist I would pay
my dues in one lump sum on a tip
from some country singer on his way
down who gives me the shirt off his back
a Nudie with piping and plenty
of rhinestones that catch the stage
lights just so and sweep in reflection
across the polished planes of my 1890
rosewood Steinway Grand Modal C
a beaut with a pedigree, one I won’t fail
to mention from the stage in the second set
during the pause between How High The Moon
and I Love The Life I Live from behind
a bobbing cigarette, sharing the remarkable
fact that this is the very same piano
Mose Allison played in a two night stand
at the Blue Note in 1962. Later I’ll work Jimmy
the trumpet player’s name into a tune and trade
winks with the guy on upright bass
the drummer slack jawed oblivious, lost
to us all in some very tasty brushwork.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
I am cold,
The very incarnation,
Of emptiness,
Hail Mary
His corpse,
Consumes me,
Our Father
The rosewood,
Holding him,
Withing the herse,
Hail Mary
Who are we,
Without him
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 12:24 AM UTC
The moon was coming up
right over there the last
time they took you away
as I double~crossed myself
with the holy water
you swam in from the bath
though the ***** my break
the earth, but never your spell
remembering the sounds
you made when I touched you
the way you wanted me to
like a ***** loon at night
flying over a salt lake
and how you could sing
when you played the guitar
I would drown in your voice
like the river you crossed
and I will keep our troth
I swear as sure as that stone
over there I will learn to play
your rosewood guitar
cross my heart and hope to die.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
.
1
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.
2
I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?
3
Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.
4
At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.
5
My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.
6
What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.
7
My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.
8
Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.
9
Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.
10
Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.
11
My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.
12
At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.
13
I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
A ******** kid growing up
in Rosewood all alone,
a world full of anger
& turf fights.
She learned early-on
how to use a butterfly knife,
showcases a horizontal battle scar
on her shoulder blade,
it makes her look mean.
She has the face of a dark angel,
elegant-Hispanic
with hints of ******
twisted on her full rosy lips.
She talks rude street-vernacular,
the same dialect used by
those cracked gems
doing hard time
down in the big house.
She’s just seventeen,
and not the kind
found standing in
a Beatle happy-ever-after love song.
This girl plays tough,
she witnessed her first drive-by at ten,
dropped out at twelve,
she’d slit your throat for her tribe,
that’s rough.
And sadly,
she’ll never get out,
ever get to see
the wonderful things
most young girls dream about
that come true.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
FROM his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod -
Crouched beneath its dusky cover -
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence -
Said "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.
1.8k
I. Cotton candy streaks painting an indigo sky
Behind streetlights, sitting on a red sidewalk curb,
Next to paper bags of thrifted clothes
With your best friend
Outside a coffee shop
Her laugh on the ride home
Your favorite song on the radio
And she remembers the way back to your house
Without having to ask for your address
II. Eyes closed and
Your heart beating a little bit too fast while
You hope no one notices the way your hands are shaking
As you clench your fingertips down rosewood frets to 9 gauge strings
And pray you hit the right note
The drums behind you to the tap of your foot
Where you can feel the bass from beneath the floor
And the voices singing along
And you think to yourself
that maybe its not magic
But its the closest thing by far
III. Walking what feels like way too far to go to a grocery store
Because there’s nothing to do after school
With your friends
And your backpacks are too heavy and
The road stains your socks because your shoes hurt too much
believe me when I say a gas station sign can look like the gates to heaven
Safeway chicken tenders and boba over bio homework
Sitting on a metal table and waiting for the world to pass by
Or at least until you can drive
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 7:29 PM UTC
EARLY May, after cold rain the sun baffling cold wind.
Irish setter pup finds a corner near the cellar door, all sun and no wind,
Cuddling there he crosses forepaws and lays his skull
Sideways on this pillow, dozing in a half-sleep,
Browns of hazel nut, mahogany, rosewood, played off against each other on his paws and head.
1.5k
You can only dream of
places I have been
Mentally,
All the things
I did for my family,
All they did,
instead of helping me,
Is trying to
put sense in me,
When I come to a point
Where I am
about to plead insanity,
A room of variances,
Out of body experiences,
Mental *******
Heart full of spasms,
The ones
my past couldn’t fathom,
This ain’t a struggler’s anthem,
But I can’t help but,
Generalize,
And I can’t undermine,
That I felt heaven,
At least on my fingertips,
I found hope,
At the brink of disbelief,
Don’t blame the postman,
If you put the wrong address,
Life is a *****
depending on how you dress her,
Let the broken glass,
Mess up the dresser,
Rosewood, Redwood, any wood,
If I could I would,
The more I clench my fists,
the more sand I loose,
But I choose not to,
just my screws,
My life is like a travelogue,
No just ticket needed just travel along,
Like a broken pen and a moleskin,
A DSLR and an eye to watch closely,
No backpacker,
Just a bad actor,
Modern day rye catcher,
Self financer ,
A mere puppet on the string,
That life hangs by,
finding questions to some bad answers,
Putting up with bad promise makers,
When a promise may curse,
Life is just a makeshift,
Life is what you make it,
Or make of it*
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC
When I die,
please do not put me in a box.
Do not wrap me in fine silks and do not play me a song when they lower my rosewood coffin into a hole in the ground.
Please do not cry and tell stories of when I was alive.
Do not cry for me.
Cry for yourself if you must shed tears.
Cry because you know that its not that much longer till you join me.
Emote life and happiness and joy when I die, I beg of you.
I want to be spinning in your arms as you sing gaily, spinning my leftovers.
I want to go into the ground naked.
I want no makeup on my face or embalming fluid pumped through my **** or flowers stapled to my lapel.
All I want are two flowers pressed to each temple.
I want every line, every sore, every hole I have earned to be seen and acknowledged.
Then let go.
I want the maggots to eat my heart and **** the shell into the dirt.
I want worms to crawl through the sockets of my eyes just like a starving child in some third world country that you have only paid any attention to when they make a brief 2 minute imprint on your subconsious as you are pondering the next brief pleasure to get you from now,
to then.
While I Live.
While I live, I want to live.
I want to be better than the bees and I want not to covet their ability to make honey, but understand it as something I COULD bee.
I want to create realms of gold and green where passion is the only thing put to the test.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
There is a valley in between my *******
Taut skin the color of unstained rosewood
Just left of the center is a nearly systemically deep brown dot
I've heard you say it was beautiful
I've felt your fingers trace its edges
I've melted as you've kissed the valley
And crumbled as you caused my breath to come in waves
The mountains on either side are lithe
Swaying as you stroke the sides of my valley
Tender and full
Full of hope for feeding a child with your lips
My eyes have followed as you've pressed your palm flat against my valley
My knees shook
My ankles trembled
My fist tightened
My body has become a tropical paradise
A vibrant valley
Full and tender
Rich with rosewood
Lonely and longing
Cautious as I wait on your next calamitous visit
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
Life belongs to Monday morning.
Still, I'm haunted by Sunday teatime.
Scones in the parlour at the back of the house.
With mamma and poppa and sweet baby Jayne.
Toasted crumpets together,and drank hot cups of tea.
The crumpets were toasted upon a huge open fire.
Jayne had been sleeping in the cot by the door.
Too young to eat crumpets and scones, she's not allowed tea.
The baby still sleeping remains in the parlour.
It's warmer in there.
And so to the drawing room with round rosewood table.
Nature of the cloth thereupon changed.
It's marked with the symbols of a, b and c.
A painted on canvass that ends with a zee.
It's crimson, edged with gold.
In the centre a YES and a NO.
Centrally placed a wine glass.
Knock knock on the door.
Now there are five.
Tonight the table may come alive.
They're hoping.
A standard lamp, rather dated stood in the corner.
Had a scarlet shade with golden tassels.
They sit round the table.
It's just what they did.
Fingers on glass.
They're calling out.
"Is anybody there?"
The room becomes chilled.
Atmosphere stifling.
Glass moves around the circle.
A...R...I....E.....L.....spellbinding.
'Twas the spirit of the dark poet,Plath.
Darkness from sorrow, no more tomorrow.
Another spirit in attendance.
Takes Sylvia by the hand.
Into the light, escorted by guide.
Goodbye sorrowed poet.
Walked into the light.
Goodnight.
Sleep tight.
(c) Livvi MMCV
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC