Disguised Poetry

I keep them up my sleeves
like silk scarves
like flashing coins
like onion skinned old letters
I disguise them
blend them into the fabric of my living day
 like raven feathers in the dark
and sometimes
sometimes I grow bold
and hand you one
a treasure 
a curiosity
and I shake a little
where the trembling only shows itself in the hitching of my pulse
hoping you will see it shine
see it tumble 
and you will love its fire
 and its color and look at me with gladness
with understanding
and say yes
yes I see it
and smile….
But like a child hating its playpen
you smash it
crush it beneath heavy words like duty
and obligation
that march in straight lines down narrow paths
Can’t you join me?
just for a moment…..
can’t you try and see the poems in the spiderwebs?
I could read them to you
will you listen?
Or will you turn and scan the sky restlessly
searching for the cloud you know must be there
to mar the blue perfection.
Sighing when you find one
your proof of the fractured
the flawed
a stain
And yet a cloud so perfect
such a compliment to the wide sky
that painters weep to view it and with joyful thumbs
smudge ivory on to their canvas.
And I quietly
with scarcely shaking hands
thread the scarves back into my sleeves
still the light with hushed promises
let it fade back into Pandoras cabinet
and wait …
until my pulse smooths
and another window cracks slightly open
Maybe this next time
we can read the poems together
and celebrate the spiders insight
eyes brimming over with their brilliance
Maybe this next time 
the magic will be enough
to illumine the sideways staircases
tucked along the narrow paths
and bright enough to penetrate the disguise.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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2 Responses to Disguised Poetry

  1. glynfedwards says:

    I really like the list of similes early on. The whole piece is really effective.

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