The last of us
meander in rolling hills
by the misty stream
tinkling round slate rocks.
A doll size cottage
hewn of ancient limestone
silhouetted in rainbow flares
creeks and rumbles forlorn.
Withered lace murmurs languid
framed by dark embrasures.
We enter the void
over a parquet threshold
to greet mirrored visions
in ever rewinding portals
that unveil the stories
of our dreams unlived.
At dusky dawn
a scamper of paws
resounds on parquet
and marbled halls.
The Obermeier tinkles
ancient ivory vibrates
in a concerto
of feline chords.
Soprano meows contend
with the garden quartet
of iridescent birds
rapt joyously
in kingly melodies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the door clicks shut
leaving only dust particles
dancing in sunbeam's path.
four walls hold their breath
waiting for footsteps
that never come
a single nail protrudes
where a frame once hung
its shadow stretching longer
with each passing hour.
the silence settles
thick as plaster dust
in corners untouched
no echo answers
when the floorboards sigh
beneath the weight of absence.
light bleeds
across bare parquet
marking time in slow degrees.
air grows stale
withheld breath and unspoken words
condensing on the ceiling
The teachers’ voices were loud and shrill,
but there was just one message,
“everyone sit still!”,
though it was hard on the parquet floor,
in polyester trousers,
bought the week before,
the first year head took to the stage,
like his long black cloak,
he was from another age,
our welcome to school it wasn’t the best,
being told we were failures,
in eleven plus tests,
brought up on praise for autumn verses,
I was shocked to hear,
we’d never be silk purses,
talents and abilities didn’t get a mention,
from the stretched and burnt out staff,
longing for their pension,
all around the system was failing,
I looked out of the window,
to life beyond the railings.
segment of the sun
lemandarin, semi-black
‘midst toasty branches
floats flamingos, flaming pink
in lagoon’s brackish parquet
*hybrid between mandarin orange and lemon
A spell is cast in gilded glass
and marble parquet..........
Enchanted mirrors line the walls
..........but only one is hers
Grey eyes study the room
in search of magic..........
Boots with attitude
Tromped into the marketplace
Chopping up parquet floors
Approaching me
Stomping closer and closer
I backed away
Terrified of this woman
It takes super confidence to wear boots like this
And these boots are not just made for walk’n.
Now my posh palette is laid waste.
Winter, winding its way to fore,
lays its whiteness at my front door.
Vivid colors become murky paste
and lose their hue with rash haste.
My parquet is covered with hoar.
Other – Sextilla: (1) Six-line stanzas of eight-syllable lines rhymed either aabccb or ababcc…poetscollective.org
*(2) A Sp. stanza form of six octosyllabic or shorter lines. In the classic period, the usual rhyme scheme was abbaab...oxfordreference.com
In deep crenelated crimson,
Autumn arrives in regal robes.
Her boisterous blue burgundy
surging with violent carmine.
Autumn arrives in regal robes
carpeting the earth with fractured
parquet of mismatched, misshaped shards-
a luscious ramollescence.
Her boisterous blue burgundy
cape blusters with bolstered boldness
as she whips the wind to climax
and She reigns as queen for the day.
Surging with violent carmine,
capped rivers rage with Her breath
and rains fall relentlessly as
She settles in for the long night.
*Retourne format: four quatrains, eight syllables each line, written with a tumbling refrain. The lines of the first stanza provide an opening refrain for the ensuing stanzas. xABC Axxx Bxxx Cxxx. Unrhymed.
I hear grand piano music floating in from afar
It is poetry so crisp, It's crystal clear
Poetry is chandeliers on high ceiling of white
It is polished parquet in spaces with soft light
Poetry is grand plies performed with perfect poise
Like choreographed parts you'll enjoy
Poetry is rainbow-arched windows, wide as love for you
Such language conveys heart's pulsation, soft as dew
But there's more!
Poetry is precious sound of deep unending peace
It tugs at our heartstring, new heights of joy we reach
Poetry awakens my soul to the good in you
Though caution comes in, love isn't the blues
Poetry is slow caress of each and every word
Like perfect pastels of my smiles, haven't you heard?
Poetry is alive like our rhythm without blues
It is vibrant, yet so profoundly smooth
Poetry is sun and moon in fullness of soft glow
Such friend favors everyone, wishing to grow
Poetry is starlight of joy in your eyes I see
It is spark I adore, when you're with me
Poetry is our stream of dreams flowing endlessly
It goes where divine might mingles with light, you'll see
Poetry is you and I in our silent orbs
Inspiring song, dance, and serenity.
*
"We're going to need a bigger fig leaf."
Proclaimed the teacher to her staring class
As the model removed the last of his attire.
A collective, almost silent gasp
and the clatter of a fallen brush on parquet floor
confirmed this to be true.
Among the downcast eyes of most
was an accusing glance from pink-faced girl
to blushing secret lover.
Others scanned the body top to toe;
some fixed their gaze;
not all upon the model's eyes.
The over-fondling of a brush,
the squeezing squirting of thick paint from tube
A pencil slowly rotated in a mouth;
gestures, lost of innocence,
in steamy, thickening room.
A closeted sigh.
A wistful moan.
The heavy silence broke;
"As you may have guessed," the teacher coughed
"The subject for your sketch today is Adam."
This or That, Vol 11 Poetry Contest Fig Leaf, placed 3rd
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Date wrote: 31st March 2022
In the middle of the night,
When I’m struggling with sleep,
I come up with many plans
That I know I’ll never keep.
I’ll replace the sagging couch,
Sand and buff the parquet floors,
Get new valances and shades,
Paint the ceilings, walls and doors.
Add A/C where there is none,
Trade the bunk beds for a queen,
Go through closets, drawers and shelves
Like it’s part of my routine.
As I toss and turn and think,
With a vow to make each change,
I’m aware that what I’m planning
Doesn’t seem so very strange.
But as soon as I awake,
My resolve, a tiny flame,
Fizzles out and so my world
Stays unstylishly the same.
Museums are quiet except
For crackling parquet floors,
Wooden squares, a game board:
Checkers or maybe chess
Of various right angle, grain striations.
Parallel to paintings in oil, red lines
Begin a court for pickup basketball.
But whether subjects of famous battles
Or romances between animals and gods,
They are stuck in a frozen frame moment
Like mammoths in some La Brea Art Pit
It is this instant we are to see anew
Each brush stroke, a wisp of hair,
A dab of white, a cloud condensing,
I lean close.
An unseen alarm makes a statue come alive,
A funerary, votive docent who guards
Mesopotamian and Egyptian antiquities.
She curses me in hieroglyphs translated
And dictated from an Old Kingdom tongue.
My crime: too close to art.
As if my admission, and apology
Were not punishment enough.
I could have cast my eyes
At strangers surrounding me.
Vatican visitors are permitted
To touch the Pieta statue for luck.
Suspecting it has only so many
Touches before marble succumbs,
It’s luckier not to take a chance. (1/30/02)
She lays on fine velveteen sheath
a body wrapped in the delicate
texture of malleable night –
With fondled taps, he pulls
her toward him spilling desire
all over womanly contours -
building up motions -- then to both sigh
upon love’s parquet floor.
June 2nd 2020
Some Kind of Sensual
Nette Onclaud Contest - 41 words
parquet trimmed with tinsel, flour, ribbon and wrap - crackling fire
12/23/2019
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