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Peaches placed next pitchers of tea Scene lifted from a Southern story Fine folio in an old-fashioned face The ladies linger over long evenings Sunlight sifting through curling Spanish Moss, magnolia. Music drifting down the Delta from the old Victrola while someone softly slips an axe behind the house from its iron hook. posted by Reen at 6:40 PM | link| versify 0 comments
After Osip Mandelstam When we sleep no more in enormous beds, And die, with honor, though dirty and drab-- Dignified corpses -- perhaps even a little sad-- So that centuries later we'll still feel a tear, Solemnly dropped, splish into the bottom of our well. Even death will mourn us then, promising, Sobbing, in the winter quiet of our grave "Never again, no! No matter what they say!" In time's fullness, the sadness will drain away As it should, growing into a noble silence. Then we'll behold our souls as in a mirror, purged white And placed with care on cushioned thrones. No, not even Atlas' strength could then bring us back From our immense room beneath the black Neva. Twenty millenia we'll drink death's stirrup-cup, Our faces composed to a dim china blue. December's patience will be our standard We'll outwait time in regal silence, and No-- not even solemnly, beautifully, quietly-- I tell you now -- I won't say a word. posted by Reen at 6:33 PM | link| versify 0 comments
The crows broadcast all morning; their frequency bleeds into 106.5 Robin Radio-- Your Sound of Spring. CROWRock's signal is stronger--lots of heavy metal. Meanwhile, two punk woodpeckers at the telephone pole by the bus stop give the hairy eyeball to two giggling mockingbirds (Top-40 all the way, right down to Casey Casem's Countdown, every Saturday morning it's a date) and then, leering at some chick-rock sparrows, bang out a four-on-the-floor on the pole with their red, mohawked heads. posted by Reen at 6:24 PM | link| versify 0 comments
"Spring brings out the best of us, baby!" And he's out of sight, tucked round the corner, a flash of white teeth and dark neck. It's a cold snap, new flowers shaking under a sudden swoon in temperature, took even our clothes by surprise and my short skirt won't stick to my knees; it rides higher with each step, my hands snaking down the denim in a two-step boogie. The stiff wind raises the goosebumps up my legs, tups my chafed cheek down on my teeth, melts when it hits my breath. posted by Reen at 6:20 PM | link| versify 0 comments
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