I think of life with an elegant man.
I see a man whose hands are silk to me.
He's stunning in a suit (well-groomed is he).
He loves to read and maybe plays Chopin.
He whisks me off to Paris or Milan.
His dwelling has divans and a nice settee.
We meet the afternoons for chat and tea,
then ride inside a chauffeured black sedan.
Such a man a mystery shall remain.
For me - champagne to my accustomed beer.
I steered toward one whose words and deeds are plain.
He has no care for things that I revere.
For art and culture my man has disdain.
He's strong and bronzed, though, and his heart's sincere.
July 31, 2021
For Chantelle Anne Cooke's Anything You Want - Must Be New Poem Contest
The end of another day
came to the Ravelston Estate,
and the workers were again
making their way back from the fields.
And in keeping with the hour,
Lord Andrew and cousin Carla
lied ever so very tired
on two overly stuffed divans.
But we shall not assume
those two eminent proprietors
were in any way afar
from the earth and people
who create their abundant wealth.
They now lied in a small island,
an enclosed and luscious little garden
which was at its most pleasant
at the end of summer days.
Much to do
people to see
thoughts to proceed
wrapped warm, for the flipside
is the cold side
stop, to decide is to act
Run rabbit run rabbit don’t stay still
a pair pull themselves together
as the sun’s next show is not for another
8 and a half hours
Thoughtful mob that lot
gnawing on a semi-conscious carcass
becoming carcass number 2
Single divans as wrestling rings
rebounding off ropes
on to
cold hard floors
Hemispherical headaches split sleep
in
2
closing eyes
adjusting to the dark
or a lack of light perhaps
7am time will toll and it will turn
again
An easy morning stroll
silence is not a falling tree
in a forest of no ears
ponds and frogs and garden gates make noise
even unless they’re told
Anti-awake is not in favour of sleep
quiet is enjoyable
darkness gives you time
not to think.
Soul at ease to bruise the mind
eggplant purple, verbatim green
Resting insults once alive
in riddles, screaming to be seen
On divans out on the porch
wasting feather's air
to be cooled on battered thoughts
we never knew were there
Sipping punch out in the sun
wrestling on the ground
with some bold "what might have been"
that always hangs around
It seems that when the soul's at ease
we should bolster strength
for in this rest an active brain
will lend debate at length...