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Spirits Of Ghostly Enterprise.

Did they really take tea and cherry cake,
stiffly seated , upright on darkly varnished chairs
Immaculate tableware, finest lace,
tastefully restrained wallpaper,
glued with cold water paste, still now visible
from that other time and place.
Dark patched walls where portraits would hang.
Polished floor boards scraped by shoes
of family who sang, clustered round grand piano.
A man bent, measuring with a tape
senses nothing of this. Calculates size of rooms,
how price of his investments have risen ten fold.
Outside a bill board displays apartments soon for sale,
mortgages available at excellent rates, will hold.
Back then the master of the house read “The Chronicle,”
while making ironic asides. Plied himself with fine brandy,
Properties, land, stocks, shares, all at his command.
Adjusts pearl encrusted cuff links, pinz nez
his trusted daughter brought back from the grand tour.
“It’s a sin not to make money, a much larger sin to be poor.”
He idly dreams of Indonesian trade; leases, charters, moorings
storms. He's seized the tiller, stays on course. Finery, refinement,
perseverance, charitable contributions, as with those he courts
who sail through life’s squalls and back into port.
He walked through  a solid oak door.
Callow servant slipped back into shadow.
Bell pull swayed in a draught of air,
Window opened a crack, curtain stirred,
distant muted laughter strayed,
whispers crept through opaque light,
lingering near the back stair. Dull mauve glow
of gaslight in an alcove, where  dark shapes loomed,
their blue grey shadows grown large in the flame.
A flushed face slowly turned to gaze fixedly
into the twilight street below, observing a rickety tram
slowly swaying left to right, clanging towards
a sheltered stopping point as night fell. Steeple bell
rang, and through the window of that vehicle
could be seen an ivory white slender arm of a tall girl
gripped tight by thick jointed fingers
released when the clipper called “Church Street.”
and stepped down. As they rose, the watcher
noticed a deep purple imprint on the woman’s arm.
Both alighted, marked time, got into step, walked side by side
through the wide arched entrance of the house.
Neither touched the other or spoke The door closed
on their floating forms, silence descended,
someone waiting in the drawing room, rose to meet their fate.
The only sound now a flailing poster, loosened from it’s hoarding,
announcing apartments for sale, which drowned out a muted scream.

15 Feb 07

Rated 8 (8) by 2 users.
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quite good
odd subject-but it works- not sure of the last line.
however L22- you wouldn't seize a rudder you'd seize the tiller
 — unknown

Thanks for the spot pal, I'll take your word for it.

Larry ship shapeless Lark
 — larrylark

way to put a lot into a poem. the length is at most not boring. i like line twenty.
 — listen

Hi listen

I don't mind if you say "This is an overblown bunch of crap." cus you'd be right.

Larry poo brains Lark
 — larrylark

well, larrylark has issues understanding that even his worst is some of the best. can you tell me how to help him?
 — listen

Hi listen

it's not about being worst or better its not having the wherewithall at the moment to write how i want to write.I sense a bit of an internal struggle going on to get something oujt as last night i dreamed three poems which seemed really workable on but when i woke up i could remember nothing at all about them despite them seeming pretty complete with stanza's internal rhyming and everything.

Larry in dreams Lark
 — larrylark

cripes, old timer
i don't see the
necessity of you

combing a monkey

well done
 — chuckles

Cripes Chuckles

Wot the fuck are you on about?

Larry apeman Lark
 — larrylark