She’s a Blue Rose

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry | 0 Comments |

(photo by noumenon)

She ignored the blow upon the door,
Resisted the telephone’s siren call,
In dead of night she’d run and hide
And never guess what awaited her.
She waxed, she waned, she symbolized
For a moment, everything,
And in the next irrelevant second
She swears she saw a meaning.
What one remembers of these things,
The singing, I suppose.

She has heard nothing to perturb her,
No cloud or shape forms in the sky beyond;
No gestures, murmurs, hisses of complaint
Disturb the frothy songs of which she’s fond,
The angels grew a lawn over all
The world, to break our fall.
Their trumpets do not blare for thee;
Shall I demystify proceedings,
Tell you what I see?
What one remembers of these things,
The singing, usually.

There, arrayed on a cold afternoon,
Blurred shapes wilt beneath a smoky cloud,
Starry ooze drips from a camembert moon,
Piercing then settling in a wind-blown shroud.
To distant chords of music, perhaps TannhÓ“user,
Near table lit by flame and scored by vinous streaks I find
They rage and stumble Kane-like, over furniture;
Their hands are all encarnadined.
Blood has spilled from its over-praised keep,
A bright blue rose bursting forth in fake bloom,
We hope to cross the abyss, avoid the icy deep,
Sharing reservations due to insufficient room.


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