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Open Poetry #13
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House Numbered 103
| Open Poetry #13 |
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House Numbered 103 |
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Embers_Before_God Member
since 2001-03-06
Posts 101USA |
…It’s not an asylum, though it’s the closest that I’ve been to seeing one… Every morning… The sweet aromas of freshly baked apple pie, the too-loud snores from the half trained bear sleeping on the matted strands of the spinach colored shag rug (the remaining strands still stand at attention, saluting whomever— beast, child, fully grown man— that may happen to saunter by), frantic bear-wife hurriedly dressing sleeping bear’s cubs, patience drained, never complaining, as I—oldest bear cub— generously rub my eyes, my bloodshot eyes, and try to hide something . . . new . . . strange that has seemingly grown without reason during the night in the bottom half of my pale blue pajamas, are all things I recall from my own . . . youth . . . asylum. Upon returning from school… The smell of pie— apple crumb— is now mingled with something new. Sniffing the air (as if I truly am a bear cub), I smell . . . pumpkin? Ah, yes, pumpkin bread. Smokey trays of tin align the counter and cutting board, resting atop bright, metal racks, so as not to scar the vulgar orange color that is the countertop. All this I spy from my position near the front door. Hastily, I remove my backpack, allowing it to slide gracefully to the small patch of linoleum below. I do not, however, bother with my shoes, the caked mud from puddle hopping clings to them in thick globs like some freak horror monster, perhaps The Blob. Bear Master has risen— off to work with The Seven Dwarfs, for all I know— but the flattened spot of shag rug, not surprisingly shaped like Mr. Bear, remains intact. Bedtime… The same pale blue pajamas cover my flesh, freshly washed by bear-wife, whose biggest problem is the tidiness of her home, cave, asylum. My hair is wet, nicely combed in a 50’s hairstyle that grumpy bear seems to deem “still in style.” The pie and bread smell have vanished (until tomorrow) and bear-wife, exhausted, watches a news program— while watching the insides of her eyelids more so than the show. I-can’t-make-it-without-wife-bear bear is back, resting against the matted shag, eyes closed— perhaps dreaming of honey— snoring like a chainsaw half way through a tree. The smallest bear has vanished to her own part of the asylum, to sleep, to free herself from the paternal grips of childhood. I too am in bed, thinking of two things. And though I did not use asylum to describe my home then, it was probably only because I did not know the word’s meaning. The only other thought, was of my . . . pajama bottoms, the strange growth that frightened me. I wondered if it would return tomorrow when I awoke and returned to the asylum in which I lived, lived through youth, lived through puberty— the house on the canal, house numbered 103. Dance with me under the moon. Touch my pale skin. Devour me. Love me. |
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| © Copyright 2001 TkB - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Katherine Chandler Member
since 2001-03-07
Posts 280Florida, USA |
I enjoyed this poem because I can relate to it and I feel your writing is exceptional Embers.. the poem spoke to the baby bear in me. Great story, my friend.  KateGenuine poetry can communicate before it is understood. |
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Mysteria 
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
Bravo! We are all caught in an asylum during our youth which is out of our control, and the memories are sometimes of mixed emotions such as the apple pie, and the snoring bear...I loved this, but felt the sadness within the asylum. Fantastic writing. |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
WOW!!! This is a fantastic, thoughtful panorama of life!!! I loved your bear imagery--I could see it--The three parts of this was like peering into one of those "shadow box" things...forget what ya call em...ABSOLUTELY superb! Will remember this for a long time to come! |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Excellent tale.... |
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wayoutwalt Member Elite
since 1999-06-22
Posts 4870TEXAS (it's all big) |
nicely woven o yuh |
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