Delta40
06-10-2011, 08:42 PM
Our wedding vows could not catch
the clouds moving briskly to the east.
Domestic fuel emissions spewed out
like victorian chimney stacks at a cotton mill
but I continue to raise my eyes upwards.
Surely even now, mankind
secretly hopes one day, they might
bounce up and down on the billowy whiteness,
given a simple child-like chance.
Not so for the grounded historian.
Blessedly, on Earth all things are renewed.
I giggle as I hiccup on a word
Shakespeare farted out in 1559
and throw keys against the wall knowing
the 9000 year old plaster from Anatolia
will survive after I have turned to dust.
Sometimes though I wonder why I feel so locked out.
Nathan's carnal lust spills over an 1830's print,
his magnifying glass inspecting the intricate stitch.
I'm quite certain Mrs Hutchinson is not a first edition
I wisely know so few women are and passively
slop tea into his saucer as I sit by his side.
Silently I urge him to leave the classics.
Disgusted with all women, he slurps the brew.
You always over sugar my tea!
I coyly drape myself in our silk lined curtains.
Darling do look up and revel in Gods nebulous sky.
Nay, says he and fingers the forgery like a whore.
I kneel at his slippered feet and ask why,
knowing all too well his world weary reply
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that
I linger over the setting sun, sigh then draw the curtains.
Under lamplight, my brow creases as 5000 pieces
of clear blue sky perplex my aura of normality.
By jove! I do believe I hold The Secret of Mary.
That's nice dear. I patiently connect the corners,
edges, all the bits to create an unabridged version of the sky.
First Editions. They matter not to me
when the jigsaw puzzle of life remains incomplete.
Nathan spits a Wollstonecraft sliver from his teeth.
...a steady purpose - a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye
I absorb the full picture then scrutinize my husband.
There really is nothing of interest to see after all.
I stroke the vellum which he holds precious.
He beams like a child bouncing on a cloud
and he adoringly worships my parting words,
'tis true, 'tis true 'tis pity,
With no clouds in the sky tis all just blue.
the clouds moving briskly to the east.
Domestic fuel emissions spewed out
like victorian chimney stacks at a cotton mill
but I continue to raise my eyes upwards.
Surely even now, mankind
secretly hopes one day, they might
bounce up and down on the billowy whiteness,
given a simple child-like chance.
Not so for the grounded historian.
Blessedly, on Earth all things are renewed.
I giggle as I hiccup on a word
Shakespeare farted out in 1559
and throw keys against the wall knowing
the 9000 year old plaster from Anatolia
will survive after I have turned to dust.
Sometimes though I wonder why I feel so locked out.
Nathan's carnal lust spills over an 1830's print,
his magnifying glass inspecting the intricate stitch.
I'm quite certain Mrs Hutchinson is not a first edition
I wisely know so few women are and passively
slop tea into his saucer as I sit by his side.
Silently I urge him to leave the classics.
Disgusted with all women, he slurps the brew.
You always over sugar my tea!
I coyly drape myself in our silk lined curtains.
Darling do look up and revel in Gods nebulous sky.
Nay, says he and fingers the forgery like a whore.
I kneel at his slippered feet and ask why,
knowing all too well his world weary reply
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that
I linger over the setting sun, sigh then draw the curtains.
Under lamplight, my brow creases as 5000 pieces
of clear blue sky perplex my aura of normality.
By jove! I do believe I hold The Secret of Mary.
That's nice dear. I patiently connect the corners,
edges, all the bits to create an unabridged version of the sky.
First Editions. They matter not to me
when the jigsaw puzzle of life remains incomplete.
Nathan spits a Wollstonecraft sliver from his teeth.
...a steady purpose - a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye
I absorb the full picture then scrutinize my husband.
There really is nothing of interest to see after all.
I stroke the vellum which he holds precious.
He beams like a child bouncing on a cloud
and he adoringly worships my parting words,
'tis true, 'tis true 'tis pity,
With no clouds in the sky tis all just blue.