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Deborah Nunn Poem
A feeble old woman lives down the hall,
we chat on occasion.
I indulge her constant kvetching of youthful occupants invasion,
since this erstwhile hotel's trendy loft conversion.
Crook'd finger and conspiratory whisper
lure me to door ajar.
She tells of the latest spat between two male lovers living next door;
bitter pursed lips mouth, gays, a lifestyle she abhors.
Clad in wool coat, in August, faded scarf
hiding brittle grey hair,
gnarly fingers clutch at worn collar, scent of mothballs hangs in thick air;
up-turned nose revering fragrant yesteryears.
Deaf, my gaze is drawn within the open loft
where a grand piano,
sits, awash, in vast rays of sun spilling in from unshielded windows;
age-yellowed keys playing notes she no longer knows.
Miss Catherine, are you divorcee or spinster,
or a mournful widow?
Did melodies seep from beneath steel door and waft through open windows,
while in lovers arms, you danced in moonlit shadows?
Torches passed, some girl down the hall, fancies me
'an old maid with her cats',
eye to peephole, ear to door listening to youth go quickly past;
curious if in my day, rakishly I danced.
Copyright © Deborah Nunn | Year Posted 2007
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Deborah Nunn Poem
Some race through life unaffected by the phases of the moon,
or the way gentle sunlight catches dew on a flower’s bloom.
There is something quite distinctive in a poet’s easy gait;
stopping to savor the ambiance of all things small and great.
On a path of wistful detours the poet will find his way,
relishing peaceful solitude he devours life’s vast array.
Slow, his pace may be mistaken for a lack of ambition;
more significant is the journey than the destination.
Compelling forces within, that bring about haste in others,
spawn the poet’s perambulation toward his own desires.
Inspired by emotions stirred during discontent and blithe,
a poet strolls ever composing his symphony of life.
Copyright © Deborah Nunn | Year Posted 2005
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Deborah Nunn Poem
As the storm clouds roll in
on the darkest of skies,
and windiest of days-
don't shield me from this awesome sight
or turn and run away.
Stay with me through the storm
with its electric flashes,
and roaring clatter-
don't take control of the ships helm
or guide me from the weather.
For I have come this far
on the deepest of seas,
and most turbulent spills-
have faith in me to find the way
the journey is my thrill.
It's not shelter from the storm I seek,
rather deliverance from a life too bleak!
Copyright © Deborah Nunn | Year Posted 2007
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