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Open Poetry #33
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A Lonely Birthday Game
| Open Poetry #33 |
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A Lonely Birthday Game |
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Poe_Pot_Pie Member
since 2003-06-01
Posts 107Canada |
Delicious moist vanilla cakes Mounds of ice cream, every kind Sprinkled nuts and chocolate flakes Sugery flavours intertwined Boxes piled high on the table Store bought paper in pink and blue Each with it's own fancy label Concealing something nice and new Orchestra playing a birthday song Waiters serving finger food Supper announced by way of gong Guest are in pleasent mood Birthday girl has puffy eyes No ones seems to care She just sits alone and cries Playing solitare |
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J.Samm Member
since 2004-01-12
Posts 415Iloilo City, Philippines |
so whimsical, yet so real. i just want a piece of that cake  good stuff! |
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Susan Member Ascendant
since 2004-03-27
Posts 5104walking the surreal |
 Sometimes one can be so alone when surround by such fare and celebration - how sad this -Susan Happiness isn't something that happens to you, it's created from within you. Joy is a state of mind. |
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Alicat Member Elite
since 1999-05-23
Posts 4094Coastal Texas |
Very poignant. The Narrator describes a sensation all too well known to most, even those in the midst of Manhatten's 5 o'clock crunch: solitude of self. |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
This is all too true many times...I remember a couple of birthdays that were similar. It's interesting that no one realized that the birthday girl was unhappy. That's what cake does to you, I guess. Enjoyed this! |
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Huan Yi Member Ascendant
since 2004-10-12
Posts 6688Waukegan |
SONG You’re wondering if I’m lonely: OK then, yes, I’m lonely as a plane rides lonely and level on its radio beam, aiming across the Rockies for the blue-strung aisles of an airfield on the ocean You want to ask, am I lonely? Well, of course, lonely as a woman driving across country day after day, leaving behind mile after mile little towns she might have stopped and lived and died in, lonely If I’m lonely it must be the loneliness of waking first, of breathing dawn’s first cold breath on the city of being the one awake in a house wrapped in sleep If I’m lonely it’s with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore in the last red light of the year that knows what it is, that knows it’s neither ice nor mud nor winter light but wood, with a gift for burning Adrienne Rich |
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