She stood at the head of the stair
Seventeen less years more alive
How long and since she had been fair
The age she could make a boy die
That’s a hell of a thing to dream
Of distant music and death rain
Sweet poet eyes and love of need
Til it was gone save for the shame
Pennyboy thinks she is for him
In his sex magic fantasy
But his star continues to dim
Table head, one small majesty
That’s a hell of a thing to dream
A memory packed in cotton
Topped by a stone cross that leans
Toward a vow not quite forgotten
Hi Leila
Great verse! When she was fair and could make a boy die. I remember being on the other end of the stick, and that was girl power fo shore!
It’s haunting and sad too, this life of quickly passing currents and looking back, slogging to the grave.
The picture goes well!
CJA
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Thank you CJA!
Believe it or not that is a camera pic of Ivy Green Cemetery taken something like four years ago. It was not taken in black and white. If there is a more monochrome winter place in the world, I’ve yet to see it.
I should mention that it is my little ode to The Dead by James Joyce, but, hell, I will let it ride. I figure it is what it is.
Thanks again!
Leila
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