A purple evening rolls in through a half-open window..
Bringing with it tired flakes of English snow
Quite unwelcomed by the yellow colour on the wooden pallet
And the painted lady in her frozen ballet
Maria wishes for a studio in London, if not Paris...
Paul dreams of winning a chess Grand Slam, if not tennis.
And night enters their one-room flat quite unceremoniously
To mingle with their shadowy dreams- private, absurd, silly
Do you see him ironing his patchy linen shirt?
It's for tomorrow's work in the local liquor shop
And her stitching on her brown corduroy skirt
It's the one she has got from the street by the bus stop
The Church bells make her shiver in her chair
She recalls her blasphemy in the time for prayer
At fourteen she traded the Bible for oil paints
Chose canvas over parables, scriptures and saints
They shake him too from his pleasant reverie
And brings back the flashes of a forgotten memory
How he won his first game of chess at eleven
Bunking a Sunday-morning service, infuriating Heaven
I liked it so much that I really don't know what to say...poignant perhaps ?? but what i really loved was that you did not use superficial arty language, the simplicity of this one is it's beauty. It strums the heart-chords, strongly so.
ReplyDeleteDo us a favour - Keep writing.
thanks honey, well i just try to write with as much simplicity as possible...
ReplyDeletebut i'm really flattered re...
i'll definitely keep on writing, cause that's where i find my peace... n will bug you to read them, don't worry :)
won't ask you to "bugger" off. promise.
ReplyDeletetrue. whatever happens we all are big dreamers. but isn't it the dreams that keep us going?
ReplyDeleteyes, absolutely. i feel if u dont hav a dream u hav no right to live...
ReplyDelete