She sat on a chaise longue waiting for the big revelation
after years of therapy she still hadn't healed that part of her
that was unconsciously broken beyond repair;
A lifetime of failed relationships and abandonment
had taught her not to trust her feelings nor her choices.
In this darkened room what did she hope to attain?
a semblance, a re-enactment of her past life, perhaps then
she would finally break the mirror of deceit and discover the truth.
He sat there talking to her softly, guiding her deep into hypnosis
noticing the way she wrung her hands as if trying to endure
Upon deeper inspection, he noticed red marks on her neck
when she told him about the gallows and how she was hung,
from a Dule tree long ago in Great Britain;
Past life regression is not easy, nor is Re-integrative Therapy.
When she opened her eyes he whispered softly,
"Anne, I'm Sorry"
March 9, 2023
Nude draped across *Chaise Longue like a pharaoh,
Stained with cheap coffee from the expresso,
Take-outs growing mould beside my cello,
It reads ‘Buyer’s Dream’ on the sale memo,
Landlord shrieks for rent in high *falsetto,
“Maybe next week”, I sing back in *mezzo,
I pour a long-cracked mug of prosecco,
Next doors jazz flows, Nina Simone’s echo,
That paints the canvas bright gold and yellow.
* Chaise Longue – A long chair
* Falsetto – high-range singing voice
* Mezzo – ‘middle” in Italian (middle range for female singers)
07/11/22
Monomixorhyme and Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
Syllable counter: howmanysyllables.com
THE METEOR - SOFA PEOPLE
Sofa pyromaniacs are skilled to put it mildly.
Fueled fiercely by gasoline (as is fitting)
Or by kerosene burning wildly,
They enjoy a fire to warm their sofa-sitting.
In anger are the flames incepted on the two-seater?
Or by simple accident of cigar or match?
Maybe the cat stumbled over the gas-heater
And then sat nearby to warm and watch?
But however the inferno got started bright,
What caused its plunge to earth
Like a shooting star or meteorite?
Did people push it, for malice or mirth?
To manhandle a burning sofa is a skill -
Out of a window eight floors up. If that’s their aim
They’d have to get it balanced on the windowsill
Before igniting the flame.
Oh the joy in their eyes :
Just push - and see the sofa incandescent
Recede and diminish in size
On its plunging earthward descent.
Then the son-et-lumiere display
From the crunch and splitting sound -
And oh the splendor bright as day
As the glowing hulk meets the ground.
And passing viewers catch their breath
From this Viking-funeral excitement;
And from their close brush with a fiery death -
Crushed by a hot chaise-longue into the pavement.
With you,each day
in the quiet,pray
For you I wait each day
while you go into the 'fray
On my own alone
I laze the day away
Without you,I doze each day
how long I never say
In the sun I fade
your covers so deftly made
To me,exhausted you return
a faithful friend,so taciturn
With me,you take great delight
later,as you bed down, for the night
Autumn’s tortoiseshell sky
reclined across mountain’s chaise longue,
content to linger
while night stirred and rose.
A tangled weave of broken limbs
lay like nest for dragon’s sleep,
and they came, draped in woolen armour,
quilted masks pulled high
against flailing artic wind,
virgin warriors, wide eyed
tasting the wild adrenaline,
anticipating their conquests flesh
as it roasts in dying embers
of funeral pyre.
Now from the cart
frozen in fear, they carried our victim.
Alabaster skin reflecting flickering brands,
no sounds escaped his painted smile
when we placed him, like a king
upon his final throne.
A circle of stony stares
let murmurs slip,
“Remember, remember the fifth of November
gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
should ever be forgot... “
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