Monday, June 29, 2015

Of Empty Rooms and Words

Somewhere there is a room
Where I long to write,
A private alcove
Meant mostly for words,
With walls private enough
To seal the sound
Of my dictionary-speak.
And somewhere below
The windowpanes of this room
A city undulates, a reverberation
Of footsteps and poet-talk,
A certain kind of language.
Inside this room, it’s always evening,
there’s always coffee
On the stove, familiar as old lips.
When my skin itches
For fresh air, the voice and flesh
Of an outside kind of world,
There’s a side-door verandah
With smooth wood for bare feet,
Friendly porch-bar birds
And a warm-blowing breeze,
Leaves spinning in the shape of text.
I close my eyes and write them
Across the inside of my wrist
With my mind:  a safe-keeping of sorts.

Written for a prompt at Magpie Tales.


  1. This is just wonderful. I like how you went beyond the obvious and made it personal. Actually this sounds like a poet's heaven.

  2. oooh, this sounds fantastic. the physicality is pungent in this poem. and what a safe-keeping - do the images linger long after your eyes open? mine always fade away... very cool last line, too.

  3. This is wonderful - a certain kind of language indeed!

  4. Familiar as old lips when my skin itches...quirky and delightful...

  5. Excellent piece and prose, Stacy!


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