"tresspasser" poems
Tonight is for reflection.
Not the kind found in a mirror.
Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine.
Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical.
One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus
my new clothes.
Let's see...reflection.
While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have been selfish. Not
once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur.
Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash.
Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller.
A dinner party!
For the intimates of intimates.
Let me see. Who to invite?
Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago.
Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No. She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed me right up.
I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of old age.
Hmm........
Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight.
Looks like I will be dining out.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
Farm house
Old and empty
Miles from anywhere
Miles from anyone
A broken window, or two
One unbroken step, out of three
To the bowed, unsteady porch
A door, still solid
Open just enough
as if asking me in
I accepted
The creaks and slight groans
of the floorboards
Echoing my curiosity
A steep narrow staircase
Seemingly to nowhere
A collage of peeling paints
and wallpaper
Portraying a timeline
of moods and change
The smallest hint of sun
filtered by dusted glass
dotting the kitchen table
The only, lonely furniture
A tint of retrospect
failing, fading
on the wood of a thousand meals
On those that might have sat
in the chairs now missing
A sense of sweat
A sense of simpler,
though not less noble, thoughts
A comfortable, musty inhalation
Of who we were
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC