My Rocker.
A no-nonsense chair graces
my kitchen-hearth corner,
anciently cushioned,
prepared for heavy or
lightweight rockers to push
backwards and forwards
in hushed undulations of
hypnotic movement.
Held by ages-old differing
hands it\'s arms glow
with layers of polish, limbs
once relaxed, weary bones
nobly soothed as the frame
groaned in its ebb and flow.
Some able carpenter planned
and shaped this wooden object
of comforting sculpture
shaved, honed and planed
it to glossy perfection and
embedded in curving lines tales
that unfold with quietly
rocking in oscillation.
Soporific moments suspend
time when duly seated
in apprehension letting langour
grow as pace lifts mood, eons
ago ghosts release an essence
haunt old pieces by whispering
on and leaving magic vibrations
indented for years.
Stroking I feel forces unseen,
gone lives striving to
realize hopes, stored sighs
imprisoned in distressed wood,
dyed into somnolent rhythm
smiles of content still remain
alongside tears that no human
saw shed yet the to and fro
seat recorded each breath by
strange mesmeric repetition.
Mystic faces that continually
flicker in the lull of my rocker
have much to tell, however will
their spirits reveal its forgotten
secrets if I sit very still ?