There is a little birdbath in the park.
There is a little birdbath in my heart,
all marble with waters still untouched.
One, two, three belfries blossom in sound
and I still wait to smell your colors,
taste your thoughts, yet you unwind into yarn,
strings spilled in the air, while I sweat on
the weaver’s loom, getting your image wrong each time.
Your fag, ember long forgotten,
still carries your sucking kiss,
stolen by the smoke, curvy lust,
against the palomino sunset.
In the end I ask.
Was I your imagination to see,
what it would be to feel
unskilled, unfound, uncharted,
but completely someone else’s?
A contest entry
- At 17, and the magic of Adsaige by j i n.
1006 points, ended May 3, 8 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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Palamino sunset. How beautiful. This write is just splendid, thank you for taking the time to honor our Adsaige, she's such an inspiration.
I wish you all the best,
Love,
jin -
I love this! The whole feel is compelling with such longing entwined with inventive imagery.
The repetition in the beginning sets the tone
and gives us the focal point of emotions.
"Your fag, ember long forgotten,
still carries your sucking kiss,
stolen by the smoke, curvy lust,
against the palomino sunset" is drenched
in colours and sets them to meaning.
I felt the title is well-displayed in theme.
"the weaver’s loom, getting your image wrong each time" might warrant a tiny adjustment
as its length stands-out comparatively. "getting
your" maybe swapped for something to echo
the visions of yarn, loom and weavings?
Just a thought. I felt this one the whole way
through which is the most important part
of poetry. Blue
: F
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Why thank you! It is one of those unexpected gems lurking inside of me and begging to get out at all costs. I am proud of that stanza too and I have been thinking on the long verse. Do you think "knotting" is appropriate?
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