mark twain claimed never to have read a book
yet his personal library had over three thousand volumes
now that is bizarre
but books do look good in a drawing room
or whatever kind of flippity floppity floop
you live in
you feel me?
i've never read poetry i tell people
they say, "yeah, it shows"
i say they can go play in traffic
hit me with a horse
the cold never bothered me anyway
"Be like a flower ... gentle, quiet and humble."
Quote _ Constance La France
Their blossoms faded to shades of amber filagree
Now, withered remnants of what they used to be
Sweet scent that once perfumed a drawing room
On stems cut from my garden, each humble bloom
is spent, past prime; ready to be pressed in a book
or drying in bunches, quietly hanging upon a hook
Recently snipped, arranged in a Lalique crystal vase
are their progeny, who have taken their elders' place.
How beautiful they are, dressed in cobalt blue gowns
eliciting smiles of adoration, never woebegone frowns.
Their beauty gentles my mood when they stand proud
until they too, will wither and fade, their stems bowed.
Oh, to be like a flower ~ gentle, quiet and humble,
happy to entice the pollen seekers, a bee who bumbles
or butterflies who flutter fragile wings, flying so free.
How I wish sometimes that a tiny creature I could be,
with delicate wings spread, I'd travel without a sound
grateful to be alive, without setting foot on the ground.
May 22, 2023
Writing Challenge ~ B Quotes Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
The enclosed porch framed a weather-beaten door.
The door was slightly opened when I knocked on it.
I slowly set foot inside the musty dark drawing room;
little light shown through from the stained-glass window.
I reach and slowly move my fingers over the flower rosette
carved into the old elegant red oak staircase railing.
I do walk up the stairs to see the same as on the door frames.
Passing through in the nostalgic silence of the empty house
I could hear the echo whispers of life of its past.
4/8/2023
Writing Challenge - 'S' Words, Poetry Contest 10. staircase
Sponsored by: Constance La France
They do not chase me, which is scary if you think about it.
Maybe if they would chase or tackle, it would be less eerie.
They wait for me in the drawing room, where I create art.
It’s a studio, some say but it is more than that.
It was my sanctuary until they arrived.
I tiptoe through the house when I return from work
A job that holds little interest, but pays my bills
because I have never found a patron or a king
I am holding my shoes, so I do not alert them.
Don’t open the door! My inner voices shriek.
I do though, because I want to be terrified
And terrorized, but alas, they are not here
Too early, my inner voice says. You can stop tiptoeing
Feeling foolish, I put my groceries down.
And get myself a little supper.
The ghosts are familiar, I saw their faces in the newspaper
About forty years ago, when their car plunged over a cliff
We were murdered! A voice screams from my studio
I wish now that I had taken a canvas out of there.
I could ran with it to my room and draw until the voices stop.
Maniacal laughter in my head reminds me. The voices never stop.
Bright balloons
from garden--
fresh cut blooms,
A bright summer bouquet
of asters and primrose,
asparagus fern gay,
elegant pink dahlia
in ceramic vase, a
touch of nostalgia.
Gracing imposing dinner table
set for twenty special invitees,
a night of fantasy and fable--
Violins softly playing Mozart
in the comfortable drawing room,
walls lined with impressionistic art.
For each guest a night to remember
welcoming them to the county bar--
initiating each new member.
written June 30, 2021
The air, warm, unmoved, clings to our bodies
Like an old, familiar blanket.
From the west, the light,
A warm amber brew, pours down
And is strained through the leaves of the nearby gums
It fills the veranda and spills through the shuttered windows
In a gentle rippling stream,
To settle thickly on the timber floor.
A lone cicada breaks the stillness
In the drawing room
We sit and chat,
She and I and tea
Passing pleasantries with the milk and sugar.
She rests, motionless, amongst the ornaments
Reflecting the soft glow of late afternoon
An image of her mother’s mother, sepia gold,
Smiling from the sideboard
Fifty years, trapped by the glass
Fifty years cornered by a silver square.
Alive once more, she sits before me
Talking of Mossvale and Mulberries.
Beyond the window, the air,
Dusty with the incense of dry bark,
Hangs lifeless from the branches of the gums,
Where a solitary cicada sings to the setting sun.
Creeping strands of ivy intensifies the gloom
of this once beautiful elegant drawing room
A faded dressing screen, a tatty salon chair
since my Grand Papa’s died I’m now the heir
Yet, when I look deep beyond the peeling walls
I can hear melodies from past summer balls
My aim’s to bring it back to its former glory
so my own family will be part of its history
Photograph 3 used
Free Verse or Rhyme Contest
Contest Sponsor Eve Roper
9/8/19
ILLUSIONS
Aloof and heedless, beer glass pushed
Aside with pique and self-pity, he was
Famous among the carved walnut credenzas
And vintage hand-cut Bohemia lead crystal stemware
In the drawing room plays
Of Kensington in his mind.
...............................
Are you blue because the place you live is like a zoo and you don't have a clue of what to do? Your spouse is acting a louse, kids driving you mad, you feel you're in the monkey house.
So you grab a cold brew to bring you through, you have another and another, keep faking the funk until you get drunk, now you're in the stew, you have bit off more than you can chew.
Then you retreat to the back room where you resume to consume now your head is going Vroom. Then you start to fume because the loom of gloom has filled the room, now you're in a tomb.
But before you resume take it to the drawing room cause there's too much on your plate, you can reevaluate. So, if you find yourself in a zoo you won't have to reach for a brew because you'll see it from a different point of view.
Work the loom
Weave the trouble some
Thread through what will be an heirloom
To hang in your living room.
It takes away the tedium.
Work the loom
Feel as it consumes
Anything meddlesome
Thread through what will be an heirloom.
Watch the colors bloom
You'll be the first to see what it will become.
Work the loom
In your drawing-room
You can do it at night or in the middle of the afternoon.
Thread through what will be an heirloom
Don't fume
This is opportune
Work the loom
Thread through what will be an heirloom.
The creaking sound on the steps
on ascending the platform to the door
matching those of buzzing bees and crickets
that serenade through the fading lights
streaming through the leafy filigree
The door opened and a middle aged man
greeted me and called me in
the thud thud of heels on wood
as we moved into the drawing room
wall shelves full of books
reading table and sofa set
We sat down and held the cups
chatting on literary topics and politics
lanterns shading the shape of our faces
casting shadows on the floor
He lived alone and away
from social groups; the urban milieu.
shielded from the goings-on
the mad race to out-maneuver
acquiring money and winning elections
as the panacea of all ills.
As I left him in the cover of the night
i wondered if he would continue
to savor the closeness to the green
or wait for the urbania to extend
to gradually extinguish the woods.
the old shaggy yellow spotted dog
ran quickly around the drawing room
chasing a long tale
until it spotted itself
in a mirror on the wall
and was amazed
by how old it is looking
and how quickly
time passes
remembering its youth
it laid down in a cradle in the woom
and cried
Check points
If you want to check a nation
How much slobs are they
Do not go to their malls or supermarkets
Go straight to a public toilet of a town
If you want to see the race of women
How sophisticated are they
Do not go to their drawing room or at dining table
Go straight to the kitchen and see the sink
Do you want to check a race,
And see how intelligent are they?
Do not take into account their concrete buildings
Take account the poems they have written .
Indian Elephant
I know of an Indian elephant that is small for it type, but very sharp.
It worked in a circus one day it sat down and lectured the public
those who came here to laugh at animals and sad clowns.
It spoke of the injustice, why the rich pay no tax to help the poor.
The authorities didn't like this, and it was asked if it had a working permit,
the circus owner not wanting problems fired the little elephant that was
chased out of town by an angry mob that had read bad things about him in
the gutter press that in the name of democracy were allowed to print lies.
It took up living between two carob trees,
and since no one expects to see an elephant here, they didn`t see it.
I`m an exile cannot go home to my country up North because there
I would live in penury.
My best friend was a communist leader has a small pension like mine,
we often sit on top of the elephant play cards and he always wins.
This I think it is because I`m a drawing room socialist and can easily be
swayed to lean right if they give me a bigger pension.
Expensive carpet, furniture of oak -
I glanced around the spacious drawing room,
And stood beside the ornate mantelpiece;
The atmosphere was one of brooding gloom.
Her father sneered, dismissed me with a snort
(although I’d dressed as smartly as I could);
Her mother begged him, ‘Dear, our Jane’s in love.’
And Jane was silent, feared it was no good.
I stood my ground and told him we’d elope,
And something in him seemed to change at that;
To my surprise, he laughed and shook my hand.
‘I said the same’ - he smiled - ‘we need a chat.’
For Isaiah’s contest
Sub Categories
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