An old, hard-wood framed armchair
chipped cherry arm rests
upholstery frayed-thin and worn
                              discarded
at the end of a neighbour's drive.
Attired in burnished burgundy velvet
age-yellowed lace collar -
I imagine myself seated 
upon its once exquisite silk brocade.
A hand-me-down throne.
I have become stunning
in my regal mediocrity.

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Are we all, then, broken?
Shards of glass to be swept up
and tossed in the bin
with last week's leftovers?

I can't believe it is so -
despite the fact that I, too, 
have felt shattered and discarded
with no hope of redemption.

Trapeze artists train for it, 
while the rest of us swing wildly
to and fro, desperate to hang on
to our fears and expectations.

Letting go only reluctantly, fearfully -
only when our sweat-soaked palms
cannot sustain us, and the inevitable
earthbound plunge throws us

hurtling

Through space and time we fly, 
with only the faith that someone, somewhere,
will be there to catch our footing
before the next acrobatic feat begins.

Doesn't it strike an amazing chord within;
the realization that,
despite our uncoordinated displays of flight, 
we are still air-bound and in motion?

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“My love's been drown'd
with shipmates grim.
The restless waves 
have stolen him.

The omen warned;
red skies at dawn.
I begged him stay
but now he's gone.

Did Sirens lure
from rocky shore,
the promised dreams
of Sailor's lore?
              

Did Sailors' cry,
their prayers unheard,
when hull split wide
and waters poured?

Alas!  Love's lost
to ocean's floor!
Abiding love.I'll have no more.

My father's home,
a righteous man,
won't keep me now
with child I am.

Into sea's dark 
and mirror'd face
I weep salt tears
and pray for grace.”

Steep cliff she climbed, 
dark sea below, 
it beckoned Hell
her soul to throw.

From rocky point,
her face so fair,
flung to the deep
sank golden hair.

copyright © 2014