Thursday, September 24, 2009

Flower Girl

The frosty memory of an opaque invitation,
the bars from a moot paned past
sang in strangled cords
leading to a webbed site seek-

the park, the rain, and other things-

words not found in a memory's title search,
but recognized as true, from the words of import
surrounding bovine images of aging glances.

The sharing of a fragrant puff of past
delivered as gently as the passing of food
from a mother bird's mouth
to the sigh of an open kiss,
tasting of moss from a darkened cellar.

And then the thought of O'Briens,
the ramshackle tavern visitation
where pig tails, and hopscotch
and cotton mouthed briefs
were readily tainted
from the stained glass window
of a lip glossed swallow.


  1. Cannot relate to this, but I can certainly visualise this. Well done!

  2. Thank you for reading Ajey. Wouldn't expect you to relate... it is about the lost innocence of my past... written as catharsis for a party of one, so I can move on. I appreciate your encouragement.