(Someone else's candles.)
WE WRITE POEMS
asks us to describe the room in which we blog.
A ROOM FULL OF CANDLES
My study is a room full of candles,
Candles that keep on burning.
(In truth it's a little spare bedroom
To which I keep returning.)
I climb up the stairs to my study
Where the candles are always waiting,
Standing stiffly to attention,
Eagerly anticipating.
Some are burned down to the wick,
Ideas that are long out-dated.
Some remain unlit
And, oh, how long they've waited!
Some are burning brightly
They are nourishing my soul;
I watch for the tiny flicker
As a flame relinquishes its role.
Some are ancient candles;
I scarcely recognise the flame;
Others are candles that will never be lit;
My indolence is to blame.
I have warmed my heart at these candles,
Which are lit by the urge to write;
Their flames have sputtered and flickered
Well into the night.
To others it's our spare bedroom,
A dull little room for sure,
But for me it's a room full of candles,
And I couldn't love it more.
*
--------------------------------------------------------------
COBWEBS!
(An oldie. Blake is now 13)
We love the high ceilings
We've got in this place.
They give us such feelings
Of bountiful space.
And when I've done dusting
And sweeping around
I'm certainly trusting
No dirt will be found.
But Blake's eyes are youthful
(Our grandson, he's ten)
And Blake's very truthful,
At least, now and then!
"A cobweb!' he's saying,
Just looking around,
And I start in praying
Just one will be found!
So armed with a long broom
He's on Cobweb Duty!
The kitchen, the lounge-room;
And I'm looking snooty!
But he's been successful
Wherever he's been!
(I'm finding this stressful!)
He's found SEVENTEEN!
*
