Contemporary Dust

[dyingflame]

The soft claws of the aging felines tread softly,
pad around the shelled piano keys, raising up old dust to churn,
slinking around marble vases of antique origins,
careful to evade the overflowing waste of drying flowers,
happy to reside within the shafts of yellowed life
permeating through thin walls and sinking inside
the fossilized remains of former masters and happy couples;

rotating with the tides, their clocks’ ticking slowing
and clothes hanging on pegs slowly disintegrating, failing,
in dry wheezing coughs of old people’s blood-clotted laughs.

There are shapes of their warm invisible bodies on the frames
fleetingly hiding in the slow hum from beyond the kitchen’s frozen door,
There are hollows carved by years of sitting down and warmly holding
melodies of each other’s minds, mugs and scones, moulding…

As shown in the paintings on the walls, they smile wearily,
hanging there, their masterpiece of love resounding
like discordant minuets reverberating endlessly
in the crumbling beauty of royal bones and tattered scores.

* ** * * * * * * * *

No shoes have been left, polished, by the oak that bars away
other waves of interference with their frequency of lengths.

Their connections, once made, were once vibrant, unique
and particular only for them two: love-bound by flesh,
bearers of stars and pain beneath the tattered umbrella,
rushing along water-drenched promenades
in search of that lovely café, getting out of rain,
a shield wrapped round their minds
against the flood of light they had escaped…..

now, their minds are left with no teeth,
the water does not flow again,
and like the rules they had rewritten a countless time
songs sang their way as footsteps sank, were blown away by grime
on old mats they lay, and saw their wreck,
as all the old welcoming shrank, and was replaced.

* ** * * * * * * * *
The cats, their memoirs’ only guardians,
still came and went inside the cavernous home of monographs,
their mewing echoing down the white abandoned hallways,
down the round stairs, their treaded paths still holding their hopes
searching, slowly, for the ghosts of the fading humanity that fed them,

sniffing at the wisps that may have remained
singing in the air-ducts, running for their prey,
hollowed by wind that led in dampness and contempt
and congealed the old remains with fresh contemporary dust;

(layer upon layer lie now on thousand sepia frames heralding change,
misted by years of news, and letters burned, and of musical scores of vibrant colours.)

[Pendragon]

Actually, it's petty good! Ever thought of writing a ghost story? I had one win one leg of the short story contest last year, but was beaten in the finals! It started out as a poem... http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/Shades.gif

[dyingflame]

I'm not really familiar with that genre no; only with its cliches. I hate white weird spirits attempting to scare people. But this poem is not about ghosts in the supernatural sense; its about the ghosts of their former selves after they die, the memories they shares, their presence lingering in their former homes and in the minds of those whose lives they had touched. This poem was inspired by Clare Morall's "Natural Flights of the Human Mind" a powerful novel reflecting on loneliness and human stuff like that. The atmosphere I wanted to convey was poignancy; I hope i managed

[dyingflame]

I edited a bit, if anybody's interested...


Contemporary Dust

Soft, dull claws of ageing felines tread carefully,
padding on chipped piano keys, churning up old dust,
slinking round cracked vases of antique origins,
careful to avoid the overflowing waste of drying flowers,
happy to reside within the shafts of yellowed life,
permeating through thin walls and sinking inside
the greying remains of former quilts now torn to shreds.

Tides have halted their rotations; the clocks’ ticking slows and stops,
bright clothes hanging on pegs slowly disintegrate, failing again
to muffle the dry coughs of old people’s blood-clotted laughs.

The darkening shapes of warm invisible bodies are etched,
fleetingly hiding, in the slow hum beyond the kitchen’s frozen door,
forming deep hollows on couches carved by years of sitting down,
warmly holding melodies of each other’s minds and moulding scones.

In still photographs on the crumbling walls, they smile wearily,
always hanging there, their masterpiece of love resounding
like discordant minuets reverberating endlessly
in the flailing beauty of tattered scores,
and where shoes no longer have been left, polished or not,
in the shadow of the stout front oak
that used to bar away other waves of frequent interference.

* ** * * * * * * * *

Their connections, once made, were once vibrant, unique
and particular only for them two: love-bound by flesh,
bearers of stars and pain beneath the overturned umbrella,
rushing against sleet along water-drenched promenades
in search of that lovely café that would shelter them…

getting out of the pounding relentlessness of the rain,
yet with dry hearts and a shield wrapped round their minds
against the flood of cold light they had escaped.

* ** * * * * * * * *

Now, their minds are left to rot, the water does not flow again,
and like the rules they had rewritten a countless time
their singing fades away as footsteps shrink or are blown away,
covered by grime on old carpet threads where they lovingly lay
to admire their progeny in their vessel, which is now their wreck
as all the old welcoming shrank, and was replaced.

The cats, their memoirs’ only guardians, after the stillness,
still came and went inside that cavernous home of monographs,
their mewing echoing down the white abandoned hallways,
down the round stairs, their treaded paths still holding their hopes,
searching slowly for the ghosts of the fading humanity that fed them,
sniffing at the wisps that may have remained hanging
in particles within the blocked air-ducts,
re-opened by wind that led in dampness and contempt
to congeal the old remains with fresh contemporary dust:

…layer upon layer lie now on thousand
sepia frames heralding slow change,
loaded down by years of news, and letters burned,
and of musical sheets of vibrant colours.