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Grandma
She kept her favorite candle alight
unsparingly. Twas an heirloom and
she knew it would eventually die,
just like grandma who bestowed it.
She figured since the memories
still reigned strong, the candle made
romantic melancholy a good song.
Grandma was strange, she thought,
in old age seeming rather distraught,
wearing her white hair curly enough,
and the lipstick smears and sneers.
The candle flickers images on the walls
of visiting her house being south
in the wintertime; stories and stories
of what it was like in distant times.
But enough, we can only know
just a little because sleepytime beckons.
I wish to be left alone. Only my own
reveries have power to whisper
the coffin's bittersweet dreams. Please.
Time To Write The Novel
Here, such prosaic clarity and skill-woven progressions, emotive weight that carries the reader deeper inside each motif present to past. Enjoyed - wished for the opening chapter to continue. You have a book or three in you, Beeble. :D
would certainly like to think
would certainly like to think so, but it's difficult enough to create just a few decent stanzas. A novel is tremendously daunting -- yet a dream.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitues
There is a monumental story
There is a monumental story behind the portrait you so expertly paint of a life obviously well lived to be loved this much. The granddaughter seems to be mourning not only the loss of her grandmother's life, but who the loved one was before old age transformed her into a "strange", "distraught" personality.
With atmosphere and powerful details that bring her to life, you succeeded in evoking a feeling of haunting, pensive grief. A remarkable study of the human experience.
You have a third-eye for good
You have a third-eye for good insight. Thanks a bunch.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitues