Once upon a time…
there was a Pagan and a Marble
It was no regular thing
as it was something to Marval
As it journeyed across the ocean to reach her
It was named Transcontinental
It was bright and shiny and sparkly
Like new fillings crafted from a dental
She used her witchcraft to make it a thing
her cats enjoyed to play with
They would bat it and roll it
and spin it in a drift
But when she played the game of marbles
Transcontinental was the best
As it would leave the circle
Upon the shooter giving it heavy jest
The Pagan loved this marble
because it was gifted from a friend
And for the fun she’d would have with it
Never seemed to end
statues keep their marble vigil
shadows pooling like old thoughts
history holding its breath
The copious serpents bedded the wolves and the sheepish grins so too unfolded the poker table is lit tonight, stripped table legs that oaken tonight, so left from the gambler were his life savings like Vegas unmatched the true course of daisies, and so darker hell-bent marble furl and regain consciousness so that we may too see the world.
Uproariously running like the stampede, these cats huge saunter near me luckily I found this marble next to my wallet, both the money and wallet are big cat varmints like silky trespasser near and dear this marble acutely registers you dear.
So like a horizon that bests the night with graying elder clouds strewn about the play but ear the cornrows for brustling sounds sound it out, the daylit crown, but sun peaks through this marble sour it is not, it peaks with willows that shelter vapid clamoring suits that strut the stomping grounds but in the sky it is, the cloudy day marble a truth has been.
Implying worldly men and women though animalia is a tipper of cunning heroes or perhaps the lie is before this, simple birdhouse moil in the clouds and send free birds like cloak and dagger eagle prowl, and absolve the saints of tired eyes, and let's look into the snowglobe marble in the summer for a festive wintery surprise.
Devilish, like ancient seeds, the sown fields please with ease, and each September the rains grow and fall river Massachusettes is bringing the bride, to Massachusetts like surly swindled brides, one married, one dead, the mother-in-law, fettered in bed.
Superlatives are my mean, my methods my mode the moony mock-Ra glass marble fables untold, the story fair, the hair golden, a new golden thread, bursts from the olden, like streams of pasturesque villages that trickle in the floods of which inundate the past, such a surly hub.
Alacrity, bestows the sorrowful or does mirth elate the callow and fair the damsel is distressed but love is oft fair, fairly gamed and sore about the heart, the festival of anxiety is artless until we part, so like amiable laughter this next of crooning despair a yolk of sullen glee like vampiric sunken lairs.
Earthly bewert such sortilege such abrasive cohorts so they all gather beside the black mass and look skyward daftly for the mote of wet grass, this trail of desiccation like lumps of wetted coal that has failed to ignite the obverse rational goal.
Endings like happily ever after must empty the vessel before the cauldron is filled, moil the foiled plot double the witches brew, constable the open air, and ensure the grasses are hewn, the total is specially K and especially after the first wave which thwarts this the souix marble, and underlings parlay.
Inside, the insidious vine, hee haw but nay said the gainsayer so soothsayer mop the floors of tearful laments the festoon of frights is Halloween spent and dear precious stones are fitted for first the most precious must endear but one truth and wallop the cavern of delightful awe so sortilege discourages the pointed shaws.
Unicorns and fairies and sprites galore, umbrage unto the night scorches again, they tirelessly whisper the haunted hospital marble is free of thistle! It is there to wait beside near and dear the princess couplet the princess cut stone fears, and turned down that measly jester the halls of the shamed are not this marbled vesper.
Granddad carried
one green marble
in his pocket.
He said
it never liked
staying there
after dark.
Every night,
it rolled beneath
someone's bed
and borrowed
a little tomorrow.
Never birthdays.
Never Christmas.
Only the little tomorrows—
the afternoon
you'd finally
learn to whistle.
The morning
you'd notice
the ladybug
on your shoelace.
The day
you'd wave
to the lonely postman.
By sunrise,
it had returned
to Granddad's pocket,
where those little tomorrows
curled together
like coloured smoke.
Sometimes,
he'd hold it
to the light
and smile
at something
I couldn't see.
He said
that's why
old people
sometimes smiled
at empty swings,
at worn-out shoes,
at the evening sky.
They weren't remembering
yesterdays.
They were living
the little tomorrows.
The marble
had returned.
Last Tuesday,
I noticed
a ladybug
on my shoelace.
I smiled
before I remembered
why.
don't you have dreams, like mine?
don't you wish to carve, to sculpt, to create?
the captor of my heart shines brilliantly, exuding such radiance!
can't i put her on a pedestal, and carve her out of marble?
her eyes shimmer with a spark impossible to capture in a still life.
her smile, elusive, yet charming- my head spins at the sight!
do you have a favorite aspect of your starlight muses?
her nose, dusted with freckles- i piece together antares, sargas, and shaula.
the captor of my heart continues to make me swoon silently, forever enamored by her beauty.
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