Borders Galashiels and Peebles
Sycamore Gap By Hadrian's Wall stood a sycamore tree
m cut it down for a world to see. Maybe the shoots will resprout
we heard an angler say.
Her smiled signaled her excitement
she was eager to reveal
something more than elegant
a cloth would conceal
startled by it's
magnificents
I gasped upon the sight
the exquisite beauty
an antiqued technique
liked distressed it shines
in the dimmest of light
nighttime does it best
The Hadrian Sycamore
a well storied detail
she used the natural of night
it secrets she would reveal
They crafted a picture frame
on each corner was a
scarlet red
the shimmering golded hue
each corner brightened
with red
it glory stems
from the crafters sorted works
the grooves of embossing
carved with an artisains detail
again the night
sold the peice some wanders to conceal
all strangers of this
aren't as novice as they seem
the stuff of story
sort of like a dream
My Mothers' Hutch
Finely polished, of carved wood it still stands,
With a glass gleaming door and crossed, copper bands
Inside, items treasured and truly lovely.
The Dresden women, dressed in delicate finery.
Gold specked wine glasses, imported from Germany.
Demitasse cups, stunning, with gold etchings.
Marble music boxes play waltzes, so heavenly.
Ceramic angels with smiles, so demure and divine.
Colorful birds gaze from music boxes.
Family pictures in antiqued, cherished, frames.
The first soft shoes of her poetess daughter.
Prayer books and rosaries bearing her meme.
June 25, 2020
8pm PST
Edited
Poem # 1, 312
By Mark Miller
I wait for her anxious glare
To give a stare,
Or acknowledgment,
That I am here or over there
Such beauty unoticed,
By people owned dreams.
Face of angel did startle the amputated heart
Racine composure set no worry
One in a billion stand of stoic rock
Of one who belongs of ancient tell
Saintly eyes give away heaven scorn hell
Of being and longing nostalgia kills the hope
Hold fast the Props contrived by antiqued coarse gone lost
Do we long for Midnight's death In our hour glass filled vain
Or search the space in spite of time absent valor
Staring into narcissists pond all are alone with echos vacant essence
We toss our treasures into the fire,
To satiate our antiqued desires.
Kneeling before glowing embers,
When smoke is silent,does blood remember?
We wave our hand across the smoke,
Praying some great thing will be invoked.
We sacrificed our earthly treasures,
In vain, asking the ashes to remember.
The interviewer is watercolor...green.
The artist, antiqued abstract.
He probes for her deepest sable secrets.
She offers pale nothings from her musky attic retreat-
He nibbles away with baby teeth.
She slugs him in his ochre gut.
With vague stone frogs croaking from
the cracks of black souled mountaintops.
Her being lies in the shadow of shadows.
Briefly exposing its oily head
From ancient mind scribbles and mayhem.
The path to her treasures is overgrown.
With the bluest bile and hungry thorn.
He's too soft -too green to ever see.
To bushwhack and bleed.
To seek the trailhead.
Like she slashed and bled
'til her soul was partly cleansed-
He's unable to see what she clearly saw.
So back and forth they go.
Into a see-saw nothingness...
Goddess of abstract - watercolor man
A dead end of a dance.
Her aurora left her long ago.
Seeping lovingly into her paintings.
An explosion of mental mitochondria.
Hanging from dingy gallery walls....
She places her wrinkled flower face.
Deep into her burnt sienna soul...
The interviewer has been flayed.
The interview is over.
You will want to come back one day
Like the crashing of a waterfall
Hard yet soft at the same time
With variations in light
Swirling, reflecting off the water
You will want to come back one day
Like a butterfly on a journey
Flying high, steadfast
Silhouetted by sunlight at dusk
Elegantly shinning
You will want to come back one day
Like a trees search for light
Extending it's branches directionally
Frantic to find the missing sun
You came back one day
Patina beautiful, aged gracefully
Like the floors in our home
Beautifully antiqued like our lives
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