YRKB
10-29-2013, 07:48 PM
My Mother told me of the Ivory gun;
Gifted to her by her Colnel pa,
When she left her estate - a wife now become -
In the back of my Father's red Rolls motor-car.
The smooth white of the handle,
The glint to it's hue -
How unsheathed from it's case,
The cool silver seemed blue.
The weight of it's substance,
It's dear, dear expense -
In that instance,
All that it meant.
Treasured it was, so; hidden away -
Shut admist satin and teak.
Safe it rested, years to the day
It was laid beside her on that seat.
In those Autumns, those Winters to pass -
Father's love withered - his chill claimed her life,
Mother took Spring walks alone on the grass,
Wept behind windows all Summer's long nights.
When that Ivory gun promised freedom itself,
From the failings of her youthful dream -
Mother, bankrupt of her misery's wealth,
Returned to where it so long had been...
Yet, the Ivory gun was not in it's box -
Nor the great rooms she turned on their head;
Doors she'd no keys for, destroyed were their locks,
Yet through not one, to that gun, was she lead.
'Can Be Of No Help.' Came Father's telegram back -
Nor would he entertain her tears on return,
Not through any means; tantrum, nor attack,
Did she the fate of that gun ever learn.
An accquaintance's gossip, long after she died -
Just a week after Father too passed,
In a hotel dining hall over on the East side
May have given her some rest at last;
A once famed socialite had been discovered that day,
A 'Kitty' or maybe a 'Kate' -
Who's pale hand held an Ivory gun in a way
That seemed to determine her state.
Unhappily married, with it widely known -
Suspicion fell on her estranged 'Old Man',
Famously, he insisted, 'rotten to the bone' -
Were it his, all would know cross the land.
His armoury, though 'esteemed',
Bore 'no such jewel' in it's crown -
Hell, were his wife alive, he gleaned
He'd ask where one might be found.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown
Gifted to her by her Colnel pa,
When she left her estate - a wife now become -
In the back of my Father's red Rolls motor-car.
The smooth white of the handle,
The glint to it's hue -
How unsheathed from it's case,
The cool silver seemed blue.
The weight of it's substance,
It's dear, dear expense -
In that instance,
All that it meant.
Treasured it was, so; hidden away -
Shut admist satin and teak.
Safe it rested, years to the day
It was laid beside her on that seat.
In those Autumns, those Winters to pass -
Father's love withered - his chill claimed her life,
Mother took Spring walks alone on the grass,
Wept behind windows all Summer's long nights.
When that Ivory gun promised freedom itself,
From the failings of her youthful dream -
Mother, bankrupt of her misery's wealth,
Returned to where it so long had been...
Yet, the Ivory gun was not in it's box -
Nor the great rooms she turned on their head;
Doors she'd no keys for, destroyed were their locks,
Yet through not one, to that gun, was she lead.
'Can Be Of No Help.' Came Father's telegram back -
Nor would he entertain her tears on return,
Not through any means; tantrum, nor attack,
Did she the fate of that gun ever learn.
An accquaintance's gossip, long after she died -
Just a week after Father too passed,
In a hotel dining hall over on the East side
May have given her some rest at last;
A once famed socialite had been discovered that day,
A 'Kitty' or maybe a 'Kate' -
Who's pale hand held an Ivory gun in a way
That seemed to determine her state.
Unhappily married, with it widely known -
Suspicion fell on her estranged 'Old Man',
Famously, he insisted, 'rotten to the bone' -
Were it his, all would know cross the land.
His armoury, though 'esteemed',
Bore 'no such jewel' in it's crown -
Hell, were his wife alive, he gleaned
He'd ask where one might be found.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown