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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

some people come across just like this at Christmas .
but they're there all the time

She came once more on her rapturous breeze ;
Of Glamour friom the charity night , for the cathedral's steeple.
She came she saw
And with her alabaster brow
Swooned once , but briefly, at the bellhop boy .
Someone said she was in boy-fish humour
So they said .she’d said

She led ; they followed, to a house of lobster
Where exacerbations of rapture
Seared the night ,
At least existentially.

Rapture shifted and , she was
Stupendous in the coming dawn.
Whenshe did capture
And sifted from that sacred pasture

The gypsy treasure player .
That was not hers to pleasure .
She came ,conquered and destroyed
What was not hers to bed , or so flamboyantly despoil.

On Christmas Eve the gypsy boy;
He sells paintings on the street
He sees her amble by but has no urgings to repeat
His treat

She wonders if their dalliance could have left him replete
Or incomplete;

From a side street appears a vision
A whirlwind on the winter street
Taps her shoes ;on the cobble stones and the flamenco
Takes on its urging beat .

In a kaleidoscope or colour
Of their eternal rhythm of their race
Of their passion he picks a leaning guitar
And just as quickly picks up the pace.

For he knows her being
Her every odour
And in this splendid passionate hour
He gives to her an ardour that is not fleeing.

She hurries on through the waves of
Inconsequential people ;
Throws a penny at a cripple,
She'll see husband charges well
For his services for that fucking steeple

Submitted: December 23, 2008

© Copyright 2021 donkylemore. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


Classy Peach

From a side street appears a vision
A whirlwind on the winter street
Taps her shoes ;on the cobble stones and the flamenco
Takes on its urging beat .

Mac, I love this story.
It's always fun to read about a train-wreck female who just keeps fucking her life up. When will she learn? At least she throws a penny to charity.

That last stanza is crazy and fun. I like when you write like this. It's jazzy and blue-sy like your picking a banjo with a corn pipe hanging from yer jaw.

Did you know that this particular poem is NOTHING like the rest of your writing.

I might have complained about the word odour, but you're forgiven for throwing in ardour to compliment it.

Fragrance, je ne sais quoi, ambiance, sweet liquor.

Have a fine day.

Tue, December 23rd, 2008 6:33pm


Hi CP,
I wrote this last night and regretted posting it almost immediately . too ragged I felt. so I was going to either tidy it up or abandon. then I read your comment, and thought yea- it probably works.
I wanted to try something different here- perceptive of you to spot it. I wanted the words to rhyme within the line rather than by line or alternating lines - if you get my drift-; hour , odour , ardour fleeing , being , race ,pace.. all that
and the last stanza is as you say - where you pick up the banjo- in my case guitar - and just throw the sand in the wind - puff - Im off !!- see -you -and if you wouldn't mind just washing that shirt as you're here !

so i'll leave it in this unkempt way -just pour tois.
Dont quite know how its so different to everything else.Is it ?
why ?

Tue, December 23rd, 2008 11:26pm


Don, this reminds me of the pretentious pigs that I have had the misfortune to meet. But reading the discourse between you and Peach put it more in perspective.

I so adore to encouner BRAINS on this site, for it doens't happen often. I smile at that dialogue, between you and Peach, for it holds meaning to me, how some of us see the world, face the world.... I have a lot more to say, but since I am totally smashed at present, I will reserve it for later.

I hope the winter is not bogging you down yet! If so, you are welcome to the Indian winter of 6 degree C, of bonfires and barbecures, and fun winter dishes!

Wed, December 24th, 2008 5:26pm

Sister Sabbay


Very descriptive piece, I found myself captivated by the words that came alive in your piece, enjoying your words "Rapture shifted...". WELL WRITTEN, I am inviting you to read my essay, entitled "THE SPIRIT OF MAN, THE CANDLE OF THE LORD", answering a powerful question, WHAT IS SPIRITUALISM AND CAN THE DEAD SPEAK TO US ?

Sabbay :)
Happy Holidays & New Year !

Mon, December 29th, 2008 10:01am

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