Not since those dear departed.
Solemn oath. three hooks through lips
That tingle with each tender touch
Of he who breathes through furnace
To the water of a face those shall not meet.
Cow's hooves my mast that drags my garden floor.
No more we closer, tooth or miracle.
It was the scent of Spanish leather
Each smell it's own. our very own disguise.
Six years of goat-skin pickled for a cure.
Farm land have we where nothing ever sows
Only grows the ball that never rolls
Where land is land; where nothing else remains;
One pane of glass
Reflective pond where skates both sun and moon.
Too soon goodbye. the seven wombs of man.
The seven pages. bride and groom alone.
No shepherd grieves more gracious than a fool.
Near broken chains. false idols we where nothing else remains.
How noble hearts tame flowers
And the tremble of a spoon.
I have bent too many times but am far too proud to beg.
No demon yet has sacrificed my soul.
My heart-bone breaks
But only when I dance
And I dare you see me smile.
Walk with me just a while
Where once we hung our washing out to dry;
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Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 18th, 2025 12:22
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, Teddy.15
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Comments4
Carried by illusions I throw myself into the read. Although distracted by items flying by I wait and wait with smells of memories flashes that quickly pass and before I notice time has past and feel the fool who graciously just sits watching the empty chairs of power. Somehow the trembling of the spoon caught my attention just as a magician catches your attention with the bent spoon trick. Too proud to admit that you don't see how it is done. And in simplicity and with defects we accept ourselves. Ok just like a Rorschach card this poem has taken what is me and put it on the page. Very nice Melvin
With all the exceptional struggle, dearest Melvin, I can feel this so very much
And the tremble of a spoon.
I have bent too many times but am far too proud to beg.
No demon yet has sacrificed my soul.
My heart-bone breaks
But only when I dance
And I dare you see me smile.
Walk with me just a while
Where once we hung our washing out to dry;
Utter poetry dearest Melvin, and maybe we will still be bending those spoon my friend. 🌹
Fascinating and intriguing with such a careful arrangement of metaphors the imagery half seems to lose itself in a dance with allusions which describe what we know too well, yet cannot precisely say. Thank you for sharing.
The avians have a quite more straightforward empty nest than us humans do… so do most city folk in comparison… it’s the landed that might feel this the most… I feel. But that’s just me, wading in what once was and may be no longer. 🙏🏻🕊
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