It was a black and white day,
no impressionist strokes
swept sky and hour.
The day was condensed
on screens, alpha-numeric
fine print ticked
insectile moments.

Town was gray,
rain falling steady
but listless, not
enough gumption
to pelt or stream,

then Milton, Miller,
Dickens and Joyce
bubbled up. The construct
of language laughed at itself.

Jazz played. 1930s Chicago
paraded past the kitchen.
You gestured, scratched
your knee, spun stories.

Poems fall from far away
into our eyes. You say
it's the music. And yes.
Art weaves through notes
into the heart of the house
like the cliffhanger spider
makes her home
on the ceiling here.


Birdsong and minor keys
and words in spaces
between the sounds.

Report Story

byAngeline© 12 comments/ 4041 views/ 0 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

1 Pages:1

Please Rate This Submission:

Please Rate This Submission:

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
Please wait
by Anonymous

If the above comment contains any ads, links, or breaks Literotica rules, please report it.

There are no recent comments (12 older comments) - Click here to add a comment to this poem or Show more comments or Read All User Comments (12)

Add a

Post a public comment on this submission.

Post comment as (click to select):

Preview comment

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar: