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Open Poetry #46

Gothic Glockenspiel

Professor Gloom
Member Elite

since 2000-07-23

Posts 3082
of Depression

0 posted 2010-07-06 03:43 PM

Her eyes were blue and hair as midnight
Lips blood red and skin deathly white,
Black was the only clothes she would wear
Shocking style to make others stare.

She play the glockenspiel to morbid tones
Her mallet was made from a piece of bone
Wrapped in lizard skin for a firm hold
They played loud, she played bold.

Mostly seen beneath the blaring music,
She tapped out counter tunes with hand quick,
Her sounds were lost in the screaming noise,
But she played with continual poise.

She wore white makeup on her face
To cover the blemishes in that space
Beneath tired eyes that sensed endings
Her own decline was just beginning.

Then came the dread and fateful day
Too weak to rise and glockenspiel play
She just lay down for a final rest
In her coffin in her best black dress.

Somewhat later when she was found,
The lid closed and cemetery bound
Her spirit had drifted to the underworld
Where her glockenspiel might still be heard.

Gloom

martiniat8
Senior Member

since 2003-06-21

Posts 897
Prague, Bohemia, Czech Republic

1 posted 2010-07-06 04:05 PM

wow ELEGANT!
nice read, great flow
vivid imagery
painted well

nakdthoughts
Member Laureate

since 2000-10-29

Posts 19200
Between the Lines

2 posted 2010-07-06 04:53 PM

Now if I only played the glockenspiel !

katahdin
Senior Member

since 2010-07-01

Posts 1196
ME. In the Shadow of the Mt.

3 posted 2010-07-06 07:41 PM

Very nice in a dark way.
Kat >^..^<

Marchmadness
Member Rara Avis

since 2007-09-16

Posts 9271
So. El Monte, California

4 posted 2010-07-11 04:42 AM

I always enjoy your unique talent, Professor.
Ida

Ringo

Member Elite

since 2003-02-20

Posts 3684
Saluting with misty eyes

5 posted 2010-07-11 11:33 PM

Those who might remember from when I was actively posting know I am not too much on rhyming poetry...
And, then- of course- someone comes along and proves me stupid for thinking so.

This is a very enjoyable write.

Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting, "WHAT A RIDE

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