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Click hereGreen bench. Summer day
paints patterns, spotlights words
between my hands.
Green bench. Summer day
tickles hair against my cheek,
impatient hand brushes back.
An oak branch taps my shoulder,
whispers~
Turn the page.
It’s lost on me,
the eight or ten years of me.
Years of bony knees
folded tight against my chest,
faded shirt years, unaware
of bare toes, ladybugs,
or how my skin luxuriates
along the dusty wood.
Green bench. Summer day
recedes into a throne.
An ancient lonely emperor
bids a fluting nightingale
pray flee its guilded nest,
fey huntress lifts a golden apple
to her lips, tin soldier melts,
and match girl burns ice bright.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 38,500 poems.
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It?s lost on me,
the eight or ten years of me.
Years of bony knees
folded tight against my chest,
faded shirt years, unaware
of bare toes, ladybugs,
or how my skin luxuriates
along the dusty wood.
I don't think it was lost on you, or for that matter anyone who reads this poem. It seeped in and saturated you. Woman, you perspire poetry. Thanks for sweatin the oldies. :)
~It?s lost on me,
the eight or ten years of me.
Years of bony knees
folded tight against my chest,
faded shirt years, unaware
of bare toes, ladybugs,
or how my skin luxuriates
along the dusty wood.~
brings a touch of what? sadness??,melancholy?
I love the verse and where it's placed...
But not sure of what it means
PM me??
lol
Otherwise, of course,it's more magic from you
I love the last stanza, the way you wove your other poems and stories that you love into this one, its perfect ;)
of the simple phrase: green bench.
*no thermometer rating
Angeline, the more I read your work, the more envious I am of your ability to dangle metaphors on a string. Two words here... another there... and a lifetime of fables dances in front of me.
I'm going to pay another two bits and wait for the next show.