For Twiglets 251

Somethings Are …

better boxed away from intruder’s eyes,
like strange loneliness that only I can see
in those old B&W photographs,

a secluded house – lost the house key, twice.
Me, such a small pale object against
a dark background of pine.

I fell out of that swing tied to a branch,
rope broke, and my arm,

my fingers drawing Beethoven
out of the piano, I was six, the Christmas
tablecloth, reindeer stencilled
on the windows.

Red candles that smelled like
that tree that broke my arm.
I’d stared at its flicker, unblinkingly.

What are you thinking, I was often asked.
Mostly nothing, is the truth.
My head was mostly filled with nothing.

I wasn’t a crazed poet, back then.
I hadn’t opened that box yet.
Not yet.

Written for Twiglets #251 “Boxed Relics”. I think my box of relics is more like a stream of consciousness. Shared with #APoemADay on Twitter   ©Misky 2021

9 responses to “For Twiglets 251”

    • Yes. I started taking proper lessons at 5, after messing about on my grandmother’s piano for a few years. She started teaching me, but Mum said I needed a qualified teacher. I was 6, played Für Elise for my recital. My hands shook so badly I could hardly play. 😂

      Liked by 1 person

  1. My mother was such an avid window stenciler that we could hard look outside to see if Santa was coming.
    You’ve finally opened that box now, Misky, and done so very nicely, I must say. Thanks.

    Liked by 1 person

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