The haunting whine of a cello
A lure, then seizure that won't let go
Memories arrested in the chambers of my mind
Still shots of reflections fraught with the unkind
No rest for the aching thing that beats in my chest
A somber strain that whines with seemingly no rest
Slow, slowly plays a melancholic concerto
Slowly, slowly cries the cello with an echo
As it goes, so do my lonely tears
Whining chords of discord illuminate the romantic backstairs
Categories:
backstairs, betrayal, feelings, heartbroken, jealousy,
Form: Rhyme
He put his hand on my butt, at my age
Maybe I should have mooned him full of rage
'Twould be nothing like the act, he'd set stage
The eclipsed moon awed, let me give applaud
Spiritual thing broad, now staring unflawed
The eclipse was beautiful that long night
Years ago, when Luna flower bloomed white
As observed from my small place near the bight
Sad state of affairs, when man touched backstairs
With Him pain she shares, looks at moon upstairs
Hand on my behind at my old, old age
Left me distressed and somewhat confused, awed
Years pass, I don't cry during the dark night
Time has healed; talking with the Man upstairs
Categories:
backstairs, abuse, age,
Form: Sonnet
We celebrate the birth of a baby
offering love and congratulations.
And welcome a new life into the world
fueled by a parent's expectations.
The birth of an offspring is momentous
for immortality is achieved thus.
Only they can carry our genes forward
ensuring that death cannot erase us.
As the beneficiary of our genes
we get incorporated into theirs.
And although mortality can never
achieve forever, they're our backstairs.
Every link before us and thereafter
gets forged into a genetic chain.
For through procreation we can ensure
that throughout time our presence will remain.
(Quatrain)
05,28,2019
Categories:
backstairs, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form: Quatrain
Slightly late, I ran into school
Exuberantly yelled, “I’m here!”
Senile secretary Miss Mule
Gave me a tiny silent cheer.
“A teacher is missing!”
She sang out to back of my head.
“A teacher’s gone AWOL,
Maybe she is injured or dead.”
Weirdly, I knew, who it was,
And also knew where she was at,
So I ran to the teachers’ lounge
Interlopers were chewing the fat.
“A teacher is missing!” one yelled at me.
I gave them a look, and they jumped out of our chairs.
Two sneaky sixth graders, having a tea.
All three of us tore off running, down the backstairs.
I ran to the gym, where was the whole school,
Touched my principal’s arm, said, “Sorry, I’m late.”
The kids surrounded us, put on quite a show.
I did not get away until six after eight.
Then I called Channel 5 to say I’m okay.
Reminded Miss Mule again who I was.
Media wanted a photo they could display.
Calling them apparently a big giant fuss.
Categories:
backstairs, funny, teacher,
Form: Free verse
Youth takes my hand and holds me back,
as old age points the way
Unwilling yet to leave this Spring,
as Winter calls my name
The image in the mirror fresh,
the one my eyes now see
Of Lochinvar and Lancelot,
in dreamlike fantasy
The children see me older though,
their children older still
My spouse afraid I can’t accept,
what time and seasons will
I hold on tight to wings that splay,
o’er fields both green and gold
And shun the backstairs of my fate,
—refusing to get old
(Trumbull Connecticut: February, 2017)
Categories:
backstairs, time,
Form: Rhyme
Living a life worthy/ anticipating a break like James worthy/ typing rhymes in my notepad/ I speculated it would be noteworthy/ glorifying Lord God, praise God, praiseworthy/ what is the, recipe, for success, I'm obsessed, broke like a mortal promise/ They scream can't isn't a word, however/ what's the word when you can't purchase a Hershey/ ya feel me, shooting for the stars, defensive first team I reckon I should shoot for another remedy/ grant a school grant and pardon that am•nes•ty that/ a hundred years like a century/ babies finally huggied up tracking dreams/ no common deaths/ tracking assassinations like John F. Kennedy/ to no degree am I being Moody to history/ no matter the degree, people crave a slice of history/ Uh check it Debit card has a low balance/ immune system is low and on a low balance/ drink a fourth on independence each day is a repentance uh Uh existing off prayer/ have you read the Serenity prayer/ Not my poem Sirenity prayer/ life, I call it a repair/ I'm down like downstairs/ but I know God has my back, backstairs LB
- Loverboi
Categories:
backstairs, success,
Form: Verse