Tag Archives: fantasy

The fantasy is over, dear,

bugle

yes, over.
The poisoned apple has lost its bite,
the spinning needle its thirst,
the glass slipper its soft, swift step.
In the castle’s kitchen the larder is empty,
the chopping boards dusty, the ovens gone cold…
echoes reverberate where chefs once turned spits
and made fantastical marzipan statues and petit fours.
The grand hall sits empty, the tables removed,
the curtains drawn and dark,
the hearths empty of their roar.
And although the guests have long since left
and the orchestra is merely a forgotten melody,
an old couple sits there still, silently staring,
gazing into the gloom, remembering.
There, as bated as a breath and as winsome as a wish
they see the ghostly consort and his queen
dance into and out of the silvery night,
she the beauty of the ball, he the cup of her
largesse and they the stuff of some forever—
but still, soon, too soon, gone.
Come my queen, says the old man smiling,
gently taking her arm, it is time.

up

Another poem for my wonderful, beautiful and so patient wife, Lyn. How she puts up with me I do not understand.

Thank you for reading The fantasy is over, dear, and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.

The photograph is entitled Come blow your horn and was taken at 30 Rockefeller Square in New York City, where the Toy Soldier statues are a traditional part of the yearly Christmas decorations there. For more photography, please visit the Book of Bokeh.

john

Photograph, poem and notes © 2014 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2014 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com. The photograph is not licensed for use or reproduction in any way, unless so granted in writing by the copyright owner.

Advertisements

3 Comments

Filed under Poetry

The princess’ story



My daddy was wonderful, she says.
I remember as a little girl sitting in his lap,
my head on his chest, loving the smell of
his cherry pipe tobacco on his shirt.
He would read his paper and stroke my hair
and later, before bed, he would brush it,
counting out loud: one, two, a hundred.
When he checked in on me, I would
pretend to be asleep and not, as usual,
reading after lights out. He would gently
lift the bangs from my eyes and say,
Princess, enough! It’s time to go to sleep,
but still I would pretend, it was our little game.
Then, when I was fourteen and he showed me
it wasn’t a game anymore, I cut my hair
the next day, and when he got angry
I yelled back that it was because I never
wanted him to touch me again. I had never
seen him cry before and after that he never
saw me cry again, although we both did,
often, alone, but after a while, I stopped.
I mean, why bother?

Today, my daughter also has beautiful hair
but I keep hers short too. And while she will
never know the smell of cherry pipe tobacco
rising from the heat of a heartbeat,
she will never be trapped in her own tower
or be fooled into thinking that the brave knight
can’t also be the clawing dragon.
It doesn’t matter that the knight got lung cancer
and rode his guilt into the grave.
I still love him, but it doesn’t matter.

up

The writer Tim O’Brien once distinguished between happened truth, when the events actually occurred, and story truth, where the events may have happened in parts to several people and which, at least, summarize the essence of a real experience or experiences.

The princess’ story is not, to my direct knowledge a happened truth, but it is a story truth. In fact, there are tiny bits of things I have picked up from several people in this poem.

As to its subject all I know is that there is too much abuse and pain in this world. We must make it stop.

Thank you for reading Short, very short, and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.

The photograph is entitled Rapids and was taken in Putnam, CT. For more photography, please visit the Book of Bokeh.

john

Photograph, poem and notes © 2014 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2014 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com. The photograph is not licensed for use or reproduction in any way, unless so granted in writing by the copyright owner.

10 Comments

Filed under Poetry

Morning coffee

Her balance is in
the flow of scent-whispered questions
which scorch the air around her,
the sparks from the caffeine
leaving your lips lonely and wanting more.
Not you, me, says that walk,
as she sashays out the door
leaving you wondering
and then wondering some more.
Not you—me.

This is the second collaborative poem of my poet’s circle the PenDragons. Read the first collaborative poem and more about the project in general here.

Thank you so much for reading Morning coffee. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments. Please, too, visit my fellow PenDargons’ sites: Julia Dean-Richards of A Place For Poetry (http://aplaceforpoetry.wordpress.com), Elizabeth Cook of Serial Outlet (http://serialoutlet.wordpress.com) and Jordan Joseph Roe of Tierce & Hum (http://tierceandhum.wordpress.com). All are excellent poets and they host excellent sites! I am honored to be in their circle.

john

© 2013 by John Etheridge, Julia Dean-Richards, Elizabeth Cook and Jordan Joseph Roe; all rights reserved. The poems in this posting, and the notes that accompany it, may not be printed or distributed without the written permission of the authors.

10 Comments

Filed under Poetry