Long Grating Poems
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At the outskirts of the village,
an orphan girl called Celina
once lived alone in an old mansion.
Out of all the Victorian antiques
that cluttered the elegant rooms
she kept against the bedroom wall
a tall and stylish grandfather clock
that chimed musical notes as hours struck.
One moonless night when the clock struck one
and after the chimes stopped echoing,
she heard from deep within the clock
the grating sound of wood and a soft shriek
which she thought were the artifact of rodent menace,
but she found no mouse inside the clock,
only a few strands of hair were lodged on the hands.
In the subsequent nights things got worse
with the scarping sound growing sharper, piercing the ears.
As the chiming music stopped after one o’clock
she heard the gentle screech turn into frenzied scream.
Struck by freezing fear she decided to unveil the mystery.
So, one starry night she didn’t sleep,
waited with the lights on in the moonlit room.
Exactly when the clock stuck one
she saw a weird animal swing on the pendulum.
It was not a running mouse she had thought,
but a ferocious creature with teeth of steel and eyes of fire.
As she screamed it turned and ran up the clock.
Casting a blazing glance at her
it whispered, “Hickory, Dickory, Dock” and jumped on her.
In the morning, the villagers found Celina,
still on the floor, vacant eyes fixed on the clock.
It was a pink sky this morning
The sky was streaked with pastel hues
But no bad sailor's warnings
were forecast on the news.
Cool enough to be chilly
Warm enough to desire outside
How great it is to be here
To witness yet another
Uniquely colored sunrise.
I walk down towards the river's bed
You can hear it before its seen
Its one of this state's wonder's
A prime and flush natural trout stream.
The mayflies have just started to hatch
And so it comes as no surprise
When a large brown trout jumps to catch one
His breakfast or lunch can be surmised.
Wading in so slightly
I push my canoe to deeper depths
The grating of its bottom on shallow rocks
This sound, the morning's only distress.
Jumping in and floating
The stream's slow current gives a ride
I trail my oar behind me
Leaving liquid contrails in my stead.
Letting my thoughts wander
As one in nature can often do
I open my mind to reflecting
On things beyond this morning's dew.
I thank my God that I am alive
I thank him for this moment
I thank him for this wonderful place
I reflect on all my blessings
I thank him for this morning and this day.
(January 23, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Doors and Entrances
by Odin Roark
How telling
One's 3-Act duration
Entrances never made
Hesitations made permanent
Some by regret
Others by wise caution heeded
As children
We challenged drama's closed doors
Many the time
Parental forbiddance
Deterred admissions
Touching the knob only
Never pulling
Never pushing
Today
We carry decorative memories
The shiny brass
Cold porcelain
Grating filigree of levers never turned
Fear standing often in the wings
So many scenes behind us
Doors urged ajar
Others slammed shut
While still others
But memories of inaction
What if
Haunts
If only
Taunts
Tomorrow's auditions
Continue to beckon
Perhaps it wise to accept
The world's stage
Cares not of right and wrong
Pleasure from pain
Future or past
Only risks embraced
Not passed by
The next doorway one approaches
Will greet with the forever question
To open
Or not
To retreat
Or stay
Such remains life's portals
To enter
Or exit
Conundrum's sole joy
Time's quintessential game
Ending with a gilded entrance
Questioning one's particular play as finished
Or merely another long intermission
Line of Inquiry
“I wasn’t sure what it was he said but it meant a lot to me.”
When there was still daylight lingering,
And the wind was upon the leaves,
And every leaf trembled at its touch,
On my balcony, I lazily sat.
My mind strayed like a vagabond,
Through the strange terrains of dreams,
Never settling anywhere,
Hovering over myriad things.
I was on the fringe of another world,
Idly watching the shadows chasing the light,
And the autumn clouds scurrying past ,
In endless quest across the sky.
Feeling the breath of passing breeze
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there,
In my trance, did I hear a grating sound?
Yes, a shut window opened somewhere near.
It was in the house opposite to mine.
In dim light, I saw a masculine figure behind the veil
A panther crouching under the foliage of a forest!
On that golden dusk, his eyes gleamed,
Sending out piercing shafts.
His eyes had the shine of a thousand stars
And in an instant, they got locked in mine
I don’t know what made me take my violin.
As I moved my fingers on its strings,
From it, flowed a sweet song of love.
I saw him rising slowly from where he sat
And coming closer, he parted the curtain
And smiled at me a gentle seductive smile.
From his sealed lips, some words escaped
As if proclaiming aloud- ‘I love you’!
I didn’t hear what he said, yet it meant so much to me.
I fell into a swoon, knew a sweet sensation
Creeping into me, drowning me inch by inch
We were so close, only eyelids away
And how I wished to be meshed into him!
I knew that in the depths of my sentient heart,
He made his permanent residence!
For long I carried the memory,
Of his passionate glance, seductive smile and sweet words,
Thrown across to me from an open window,
On a mild windy night of song, silence and shadows.
Again and again, it awakened in me,
A wistful longing, I hardly could resist,
Until it became a picture frozen in time.
On that gathering dusk lit in golden glow
Did he rob me in secret and carry me unawares,
On the languid wings of his honeyed words?
Or when he broke open that window,
Did he break open my heart too,
And enter it unbidden?
Everything that can hurt
is chronic in an old body.
An arrow through the heart is acute,
a bullet in the knee is an in-the-moment pain
that lasts a lifetime,
however, a chronic chronicity is the real killer.
She had had enough. Windows held nothing for her.
Food tasted like burnt paper,
breathing a grating torture.
She once knew a lovely lake,
one she had swam upon as free as a fish.
A lover or would-be lover
waved her to come ashore
but she would linger in the lake
letting the waters caress her in parts that
hands could never reach.
It takes forever just to rise and sit at the edge of the bed,
Bones rasp on bones, hot wires thread joints.
At last she looks over the side of the mattress
into that blue clear lake again.
She could dive now, she thinks,
dive headlong, swan dive
and never return to the surface.
In that moment, a mercy arrives;
a dragging grudge of infirmity
becomes a soul-deep-daggering,
swampy tumors long moldering
in the indolent mouth of a remorseless beast
burst into devouring bonfires
flares that ram her into the unbearable.
With a scream of joy she dives weightless
into sweet and obliviating waters
shedding years of drought,
and far from the maul and clank
of indifferent time.
~~~~~
Eternal as the sea's unceasing roll,
our love is real; we never pretend;
so let's hold hands and take a moonlight stroll.
Though the sands of time have levied a toll,
rather than break, our hearts learned how to bend,
eternal as the sea's unceasing roll.
Death assumes we will relinquish control,
and yet, we don't believe Death is the end,
so let's hold hands and take a moonlight stroll.
Age wears us down, grating flesh, heart, and soul,
but Death is nothing that love can't transcend,
eternal as the sea's unceasing roll.
We are matching halves of what makes us whole,
you're my soulmate, as well as my best friend,
so let's hold hands and take a moonlight stroll.
One day, grief will ink our life dark as coal;
yet love, trust, and faith are a potent blend,
eternal as the sea's unceasing roll;
so let's hold hands and take a moonlight stroll.
If you are wise, you will heed this call
And never over-trim your nails,
Or bite them raw til the pain makes you stop.
You should always leave enough nail showing,
In case you go over the edge of the cliff
And mabe a bit more if you keep misplacing the can opener,
Or if you have need to be on a window ledge.
You may not always have time to take off your gloves or socks,
So a nail or two poking through will do no harm.
If you have need to dig yourself out of a hole,
Your nails could be used in absence of a shovel or a pocket knife.
They could make you rich,
If you have nothing else to scratch your winiing prize ticket with.
Wild eyed beasts may back off, if they can see some length in your nails
And getting back your keys that you dropped down the grating may
Depend on the length of your nails.
I hope you can now see some merrit in what I say,
And you will live to tell the tale of how
Your fate rested solely on how much you trimmed off your nails.
Written: November 15, 2025
*******************
I am no feeling thing—
a moribund pastiche
of dulled mornings,
threadbare in soul,
writhed into silence.
No reason.
No why.
Just the torque of transience
grating against my sacred sapidity,
a palimpsest of vanished warmth.
Someone—
pinch me past this paucity.
I need your touch,
your rubicund ripple
to resile my wilted mettle.
Let your finger feel
be my panacea,
a seraphic catharsis
to evanesce this numb imbroglio
where even grief feels distant.
Come—
at your behest,
I will abase my hubris,
prowl through the seraglio
of memory’s panoply,
and rake through the riparian dusk
for one scintilla of you.
Let me feel again—
not the panoply of pain,
but the luster of being,
the emollient ache of presence,
the dulcet burden of love.
“Pop, hold on to me.” The son said with a smile as he opened the passenger side door…and I was instantly transported to a time 24 years before.
Our son, Bryan, was getting his drivers license and in front of us as we stood in line abreast…stood an older man with his father…who was taking the vision test.
The old man put his head in the machine…but something went awry…when asked to read the top line…”I can’t!” was his reply
“Let me try again.” The old man insisted. “Which line did you say?”
The screener answered, “the top line” then the old man stepped away
He looked at his son next to him…then angrily back at the screen…
“I’m not sure,” he said to his son, “but I think there’s something wrong with this machine.”
“Miss,” he asked the lady who had let out a cynical yawn, “this machine you’re using for my test…are you sure the darn things on?”
“I’m sure.” The lady replied…her voice was low and grating…
“Read the top line please.” She repeated, “there are many people waiting.”
In a voice that seemed so unkind…as if she was provoked…
She said, “If you cannot read the first line, sir, your license is revoked.”
The old man pushed his head back in to the machine then cried out, “This can’t be!” as he unsuccessfully tried to read a line he could not see.
Next he took a step back…he looked old and frail and weak…but he stood up tall, straightened his clothes and brushed a tear from off his cheek.
“Don’t worry, Pop.” His son said. “This is nothing we can’t survive…after all the years you drove me around…think of this as my turn to drive.”
“Pop, hold on to me.” He said as they slowly waked out the door. “I’ll drive you home the same way you drove me home before.”
The memory of that day will always be special to me…not just because Bryan passed his test…but it was also the day I saw in a son’s love…a father truly blessed.
alone in the quietude of nature
that fills me with serenity
though crows in trees are a disturbance
their grating noise an irritation
I follow a path to where skylarks sing
their melodic song soothing
but my heart is full of chaos
and anxiety
I have always found my soul in nature
but how can I when my body is broken ?
I love the rain falling in the forest
the drizzle upon the trees
the kisses on my lips and face cleansing
but a deluge brings me a deep fear
I adore those days of warm drip dropping summer rain
and soothing gentle raindrops of Spring
but wild storms of autumn leave me hiding
the thunder and lightning fills me with dread
oh, how can I not welcome those first days of gentle snow ?
the cold of winter takes hold of my life
it seeps into my bones
that crack and groan in pain
oh, but the beautiful of snow falling is breathtaking
so lovely and fragile
but the bitterness brings me to my knees
I shelter inside by the fireplace
though the crackle of the wood is a calmness I like
how can beautiful winter bring such pain to my broken body?
in winter I reflect on death
they seem connected to me somehow
my family dead and cold as winter
in spring I reflect on death
each raindrop a dagger to my heart
for I must visit the cemetery
I must be near their bones
take a pause from life in the hush of graves
where I stand in the stillness of birds singing
beneath a weeping tree
I often wonder how is it that I find the love in death ?