The rustling of leaves interplays with the ocean breeze,
as traces of moonlight escape through blackout curtains hanging from steel rods.
Bolts of illumination highlight stacks of books caked in dust,
while a man, decrepit with age, sits on a worn auburn-coloured leather chair.
His balding hair is grey from years of turmoil.
Wrinkles lay heavy, nestled deep within his face,
exposing the fragility in his demeanor.
Placed before him: stark white paper and a singular obsidian pen.
Removing his wire-thin spectacles, he wipes them gingerly with his nightshirt
and returns them safely to perch on his sunken cheeks.
Ruminating words flood through his mind
as he picks up the pen with his slender fingers.
The grandfather clock approaches three in the morning to the left of him,
reminding him that time is not on his side.
Scribbling fragments of what he can remember on the paper,
his last will and testament begins to unfold—
final wishes interwoven with untold life stories.
Loneliness weighs heavy in his heart
as the wavering flames of his existence extinguish
with his concluding pen strokes.
slob
unkempt
slovenly
my hair is weird
my face is dirty
my teeth are quite smelly
my underarms are screaming
I am a total wreck mama
I have worn this nightshirt for three days
there is a wood tick buried in my arm
Shh! Babies are sleeping Dorie said.
Slumbering in dreamland with her Uncle Fred
Tummies full of dolly potatoes, they are amply fed
Especially after gulping down cinnamon bread
Two dreaming of a trip on an African bobsled
Cozily cuddled up in a rocking chair bed.
One baby dolly in a nightshirt made by Grandpa Ed.
All three in dreamland where only angels tread.
supple body in a white nightshirt
that slips from a round pink shoulder
caressing the sweet willfulness
of a plump waist
her peasant face shining, over stimulated
full cheeks that cushion light
mud brown eyes, ornate longing
lower lip near quivering
silent fear or wicked curiosity?
breasts expansive
yearning flesh
delicate seduction
soft hand reclaiming a goblet
yielding obedience
telling me, "I was fully alive once too!"
note pad away
what melts into me?
that goes outside the frame
that ought to be known
Rubens' painting
uncommon intimacy
tucked into dark corners
beating heart heavy
like my stroked steps
that whisper to the ground
eager to learn her mystery
Poem composed: February 4, 2021
Revised: April 15, 2021
Sensual Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
Under the cozy multicolored quilt I was sitting just fine.
In walked my mother with nightshirt of lime.
She said choose a book from the story book elf.
He had put them all high upon my tallest wall shelf.
I was tickled to pieces, for her reading was great.
Also it means I would be able to stay awake really late.
I chose my favorite about Peter Pan and Wendy.
She got into my covers, and cuddled with me.
The kerosene gasoline lamp gave just the right glow.
Her voice was magic, just the right amount of joy and woe.
She read so well, my eyes kept trying to close.
Where she got this reading prowess, only her angel knows.
In a twisted knot hole of this comfortable sycamore tree
I found a love for fairy tale stories that would always be.
To this day when I take them down from my own little shelf
I hear my mother’s soft voice, and I thank the story book elf.
The White Frontier of Snow
By Franklin Price
1/23/2015
The white frontier of snow I saw
Outside my window pane
No signs of footprints in it
Must go out could not refrain
Had to walk where no one had
On that fresh fallen snow
If anyone had walked there yet
Would have seen it I would know
Got out of my nightshirt
Put on my boots and hat
Rushed outside to be the first
Saw the footprints of a cat
Knew I had not been the first
Felt very cold and heaven knows
I rushed right back inside the house
To put on my other clothes
He floats along in his porcelain tub
on an evening sea of gold
and the ruby eyed fish wink at the child
as he shivers alone in the cold
In his nightshirt of cotton
he baits his small hook
with a heart that he picks from a pail
and raises the bed sheet
he dragged from his room
to give his wee ship a red sail
and the dolphins do smile
as they watch the young lad
when he drops the heart in the deep
for he wants to catch a seahorse prince
to ride and gallop and leap
the lady of evening encircles the boat
and strokes the child's soft head
then lifts him right up and carries her charge
back to his warm trundle bed
and dreams of the night in the little blue boat
are tucked away in a drawer
as the angel of sweet dreams tip toes away
and silently closes the door...