Grandpa’s House
December 8th, 2009
Lilting whispers- the music behind the memory. It calls me like the sun calls specks of dust from between the bookshelves. A delicate mixture of old and new found only in the quiet moments where counted time cannot reach me.
I remember.
A gentle darkness resides in everything. Sinking into the carpet and crawling up the walls with thin, grasping, tendrils. They gather and sleep behind corner bound cobwebs. Dreaming dreams only shadows keep.
It smells old here. Like once loved books- the reader long gone, and relics of another life. Bones, stones, and vases. Paintings and poetry. Rough hewn textures and the after-scent of sweet, sweet tobacco.
A jade horse upon the mantle piece and a chest of rosin wood carved in half a thousand beautiful stories. Little golden boxes with curling feet, hollowed out for secret treasures and simple presents. Maps of the far east and turning tides, fantastical places beyond my perceptions.
Touches from a world outside these molding walls, yet no place could be more comforting to me in the wee hours between night and day.
and now you have written a prose poem :) hehe
I never thought about it before but you’re right. :D If all my poetry came as easy to me in that piece I’d probably try my hand at it more often. :) Still figuring out what directions the purple prose within is wanting to take but each day it seems like I’m figuring it out just a little bit more. Yay me!