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Living Poets of Baconery... or simply poem corner of Mits
Topic Started: Apr 9 2012, 05:28 PM (865 Views)
Sinjin
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^________^
Behind the Old Dark-Paneled Doubledoors (8-27-12)

Today the sun enters slanting through
The hole on the rafters like lasers do
And the tallest tree that magically
Grew from the ground askew
Stands ever so tall to wave
The yellow-green flag of the braves

Many reside in this isolate chamber
Full of authority, seldom disclaimer
From the proudest to the meekest
The thickest and the thinnest
Some with animal-hide armor
Some naked, clothed light like feather
And others display their royal blues
Emblazoned, embossed in romantic hues
Most, wounded with scars of old and new
And others protected, hidden from view

They tell of tales, stranger than fiction
Root of my aches, sometimes affliction
And yet they found an audience in me
When I should be in class at least till three
But they make better teachers, I certainly agree
For each turn of the page, a world caresses invitingly

Or when confounded by boredom too much
I turn to men and women and beasts and gods as such
That I forget who is the observer when eyes would meet
For perfect is their figure, their face, their nose, their mouth, even their teeth
Or fangs and claws, an exemplary replication
These portraits, busts and waxed imaginations

Oh no! It fell, one leg, a peg like a viking’s
Wanted, Atlas! Or the world enters endless spinning
Or tumbling and bouncing, but no, I don’t suppose
It’s made of plastiglass and breaks with just a throw
Luckily, some servicemen appeared
Lining in file, armed and geared
With hard spines and strong bodies
They lifted the globe of last century’s
And still I could not understand
Strange names for distant lands
Like Prussia instead of Germany
And then an empire of Austria-Hungary!

It baffles the mind, it aches, so I bid it adieu
And come back when I’m a History Major Politico

Now off to the high walls of fire-breathing dragons
Staff-wielding wizards, tomb raiders, sci-fi agents
What better way to end the day?
With a fiction in hand and hero to play!

I’ll just have to remember not to jump from the ledge
For this rickety bannister is no Ruins of Carthage
And then, when the clock’s hands strikes quarter to three
The old dark-paneled doors should be lock and it’s home for me
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