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Array
(
[sid] => 165545
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Where My Childhood Roams
[time] => 2011-03-29 21:30:06
[hometext] => Memories, Childhood, Mystery, Secrets, Haunting, Nightingale, Ivy, Septum, Mountain, Dwell, Muse,
[bodytext] => ......................................................... "A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds." -Percy Bysshe Shelley .......................................................... A bit of a haunt, This memory, Like the whisper of an Old friend, Distant, And near, And distant again, Almost an echo in itself, Fading in and out Of the transient, Fragrant shadows Where ribbons of Black Ivy Drape the Ash And Dogwood. Drops of dew Bead against the Pale moonlight, And something In the wind stirs, Tossing dried, Forgotten leaves Into the ashen stillness, Gently rustling Fragile branches And sending waves into The crimson tipped Wild grasses. And there, She breathes, stirs The summer mist, Careful not to Wake the dew. 'Tis a darkness she Cannot resist, A sapphirine Twilight Known to few. Where fleeting whispers Greet the day, And the dreams of Shadow children play. Where thunders peal An alter cry, And long forgotten Winters sigh. There is a place Of subtle dreams, Where lightning fades, And silence screams, Unheard, unheeded warnings through That outre cask of summer dew. Where bloodstones echo Ancient tales, And of their deep And dark farewells. Where, in silence, Those haunts So frozen in time, Rest where the torn, And nettled branches Of laurel climb. Where the mandrake, the henbane, And white hellibore call Through the shadowing leaves Of evenfall. There the wind, In all its quiet breath Kisses through the red oak And blue myrtle, The cottonwood and ash, Tossing around yellowed leaves In a tender ballet, A place old, And new, And old again, Where dry branches creek out Unheeded warnings And the wind whistles And bites whispered secrets Into the hollow dark. There is a place, They say, Of old. A place of darkened Chamber Gold, A secret place Known but to a few. Where crickets sing To waters blue. Where tree frogs mourn Their subtle home, And Wild Oleander roam. Where the sun beams through The dead of night, Touching everything in sight, With its wan, And silent light. There she walks the Emerald darkness through Swathes of lightning green, Leaving but the softest breath Of sorrow in-between, And touching ancient autumn leaves Beaded with new dew, As shafts of wistful moonlight Bathed in stardust wander through. Where glows the lanterne des mortes Under her fading shell, Where the spirited sprytes And sorted saints Of Mt. Helicon may dwell. She is always there, Always drifting through The ivy covered willow, The oak, the cottonwood, Always whispering her quiet words Into unsuspecting ears, Leaving only the softest footprints In the ancient snow, Forgotten and abandoned By the years. She watches this hidden place, This place so dark with wonder, And the cold breath Of tomorrow, Of a thousand Yesterdays ago, And of now. Where the autumn frost scribbles Her name into the mossy earth, And firefly candles Dot the trees. There is an obscure path Through the Greentea rose, Which follows a Haunt of lambient snows That lead to where a river flows Near Andromeda's Beaded Well. She will follow the Ivy draped septum through Reeds of wine, And thunders blue, Where dour spirits In common dwell With the meadowlark And the nightingale. Where the tormented soul Is never seen, And the soft wind blows Shaded And serene. This is a place of chambered Catacombs, And the haven where My Childhood roams. ....................................... Copyright © 2011 Richard D. Remler All Rights Reserved ...................................... [comments] => 3 [counter] => 289 [topic] => 31 [informant] => NightOwl61 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 15 [ratings] => 3 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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