deepundergroundpoetry.com
Suffering
Flowers with pink petals on the open window
in a fish bowl of fresh, clean water.
He sits on french chair
with his beautiful frame that is muscular, yet soft and fluid and long.
He stares out upon his country vision.
As a child mother and father would dance to 'Abba' in the dining room.
They would kiss and move, two magnets on the floor.
The wind, like music, swept through his cottage, a fleeting wonder, a Spanish dream, drenched in heat.
The only item imperfect, like a single cloud in a blue sky was a photoframe,
face down,
glass surrounding
center of the floor - perhaps the center of his world.
By noticing that, you begin, as the fly on the wall to notice other things,
the way the liquid in his coffee cup was certainly not coffee. Something dead, on his mind, an unshifting manikin
but that's enough, for there are flowers with pink petals on the open window
in a fish bowl of fresh, clean water
and he sits on a french chair,
in all his beautiful frame, muscular, yet soft and fluid and long
staring out upon his country vision. [/font]
in a fish bowl of fresh, clean water.
He sits on french chair
with his beautiful frame that is muscular, yet soft and fluid and long.
He stares out upon his country vision.
As a child mother and father would dance to 'Abba' in the dining room.
They would kiss and move, two magnets on the floor.
The wind, like music, swept through his cottage, a fleeting wonder, a Spanish dream, drenched in heat.
The only item imperfect, like a single cloud in a blue sky was a photoframe,
face down,
glass surrounding
center of the floor - perhaps the center of his world.
By noticing that, you begin, as the fly on the wall to notice other things,
the way the liquid in his coffee cup was certainly not coffee. Something dead, on his mind, an unshifting manikin
but that's enough, for there are flowers with pink petals on the open window
in a fish bowl of fresh, clean water
and he sits on a french chair,
in all his beautiful frame, muscular, yet soft and fluid and long
staring out upon his country vision. [/font]
Published 18th Jan 2011
| Edited 19th Jan 2011
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
1st Feb 2011 5:16pm
ImperfectedStone,
you have a unique talent of looking beyond the obvious and seeking out and desribing the scene from a different perspective.
Detail and imagery runs through your work and this is no exception.
Particularly liked the opening and closing lines being the same - like being trapped in a loop.
No real suggestions to tighten this up, except maybe:
The wind, like music, swept through his cottage, a fleeting wonder, a Spanish dream, drenched in heat.
Just to tighten up this line, you could say:
The (Mandolin) wind swept through his cottage, a fleeting wonder, a Spanish dream, drenched in heat.
All in all a great poem and a shame nobody else has commented on it yet as it desereves the attention of any up and coming poet.
regards,
Hooded
you have a unique talent of looking beyond the obvious and seeking out and desribing the scene from a different perspective.
Detail and imagery runs through your work and this is no exception.
Particularly liked the opening and closing lines being the same - like being trapped in a loop.
No real suggestions to tighten this up, except maybe:
The wind, like music, swept through his cottage, a fleeting wonder, a Spanish dream, drenched in heat.
Just to tighten up this line, you could say:
The (Mandolin) wind swept through his cottage, a fleeting wonder, a Spanish dream, drenched in heat.
All in all a great poem and a shame nobody else has commented on it yet as it desereves the attention of any up and coming poet.
regards,
Hooded
1st Feb 2011 9:34pm
Thank you again, Hooded! Another one that I wasn't sure anyone would ever like, I am truly glad you did - thank you for your input and I will have a little relook tomorrow morn'
