It has been awhile since I let my mind wander in the realm of verse. Last night I allowed my thoughts take me where they would, and although this is probably more prose than free verse poetry, it’s a poetic picture of where I write most of my work. I hope you enjoy it.
An Evening Poem
I sit here, alone, as I often do,
comfy in my old wingback blue chair,
a cup of steaming tea nearby,
my feet up on a tufted butter-yellow footstool,
with corded fringe around its perimeter.
in my small bedroom,
with a creaky, old maple floor,
protesting my every footstep
and the faint tingle of peppermint oil in the air—
to ward off mice.
an old bird house with
white chipping paint,
a faded yellow roof,
and ten tiny homes,
filled with bird figurines and tiny yellow teacups.
Two cheery yellow felt dahlias
adorn one pale-egg-blue wall.
A shelf of read books and to be read books
Colorful metal birds in a steel-blue frame
brighten the atmosphere,
and a message-board with cards I’ve been given,
dangling on mini clothespins,
reminds me that others care.
One sky-blue birdcage hangs in a corner,
housing two white lovebirds,
gray hydrangeas, aqua peonies,
and a string of fairy lights.
I’ve left the door open, of course,
for the birds to fly free,
if they wish.
Birds aren’t meant to be caged,
neither ceramic or flesh and blood.
Petite white, one dimensional vinyl birds
on pristine branches with crisp white leaves
dance across the same wall,
lending movement and a kind of freedom to the space.
A desk and two dressers—almost as old as me—skirt the baseboards.
In addition to harboring my clothes,
they’ve held so many different bits of my life on their surface throughout the years:
pink eyeshadow and lipgloss,
strands of jewelry,
my favorite books,
past photos of old boyfriends,
a China lady, dressed in a pink flounced dress, walking two poodles on gold chains,
flowers from lovers,
Paper roses crafted from hymnal pages,
antique crystal displaying feathers,
as proudly as a peacock,
and pictures of my family.
Memories have carved out dings and dents,
here and there in the almond-streaked wood, edged in gold.
But I love it all the more,
because it’s been well-used and well-loved.
My bed centers the room,
lounging under a gold chandelier
with hanging rainbow-makers
straight from PollyAnna.
Pillows with gray and white birds
perch toward the head.
One rectangular cushion spells out “HOPE”
and says it all.
Glancing around my room,
my little haven,
Am I lonely,
here in the still of the evening?
My thoughts keep me company tonight,
as they so often do,
and I tap them to life,
on my iPad,
by lamp light,
under a burlap shade trimmed with aqua lace,
in my gray and white—with pops of yellow—bird-themed bedroom.
What do I hear?
In my spirit,
in my heart?
My ears pick up
the scratch of mice in the walls,
the distant drone of the highway,
the hum of the refrigerator,
the whoosh of air through the heating vents,
and the ever-present ringing in my ears.
No, not that.
Underneath it all,
I hear words, whisperings.
And so I let them free,
as I must,
and grant them the voice they plead for,
in black letters on a white screen,
where I hope you will eventually read them,
glimpsing another portion of who I am,
as I write this evening poem.
Thanks for reading!
Do you have a favorite poem or poet? A few of mine are: Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Shakespeare, John Greenleaf Whittier, Christina Rosetti, and Emily Dickinson.