I don't know what came over me the other night.
I'd been thinking about what I wanted to say to in my Yelp review of this cool, new bar I went to last Friday night, and while in the midst of doing dinner dishes, a poem spontaneously erupted in my brain.
You have to understand, I haven't written a poem since high school 1,000 years ago. One of my "finest" poems was entitled: "The Ballad of a Lost Love." Ha! What did I know about love and loss at 17? And what the hell did I know about writing poetry? What do I know now about poetry? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But I thought I'd share anyway.
Thought it might lighten things up a bit around here.
The Red Door
There is no sign to guide my way,
Save for single
Save for single
red light.
A beacon glowing
in the night;
Intrigued,
I am drawn to The Red Door.
A virgin once more;
I am hesitant
I am hesitant
for I know not what is in store.
I am bathed In scarlet.
A couple has become intimate.
Ensconced in a private nook,
I try not to look.
I try not to look.
My heart skips a beat.
I am consumed by their passion,
Engulfed by their heat.
Engulfed by their heat.
A cool libation is my only salvation.
Like the sensuous feel of
plush velvet,
The bittersweet taste of
dark chocolate,
The heady smell of
a leather banquette;
An evening I shall soon not forget.
Absolute, utter schlock. I hope my poem provided for you a much needed laugh.
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Maureen J Andrade
Tinkerertink69
Con Chapman
mypsyche
Zoe FitzGerald Carter
fernsy
Salon.com
Comments
The only thing urgent
was the detergent.
Enjoyed your poem. Thanks for sharing.
Not so much schlock...Write more.
:-) / r
You did real good here.
What is poetry?
It is Original Speech. It originates images.
the red light. the beacon. the couple!
heady smells.
When we write, we are trying to communicate.
To whom, why, we hardly know.
To uplift. Not 'emotionally'; that is schlock.
To uplift imaginatively.
We all got our own private glimpses & recollections &
observations on this miracle of consciousness,
which seeps out to, seeks out
what is in the Penumbra
around each unique
soul.
Serious business.
To tell of our deepest parts...
which are , oddly, shared...
No method, no teacher.
Spill it out.
"let us not talk falsely now/
the hour is getting late"
"all along the watchtower"..dylan..
out there they wanna poison us to death
with their wicked words and noxious chemical waste.
i am smoking a cig on a high hill
above the town.
Seems to be a fuss about something down there.
Huh.
Should i go try to fix it?
Ah, first a sip of libation.
That might help me care.