Let’s go, Soul, to where the ceilings are vaulted and made of glass,
Where the light is golden with sunshine gleaming on old lamps made of brass,
Where the walls are walnut bookshelves, carved by a master’s hand,
And where several large tropical plants make the air thicker, by their leaves, all fanned,
Worry not, Soul, about moulding books,
But consider, rather, the great abundance of reading nooks,
with violets tucked all in.
Twirl tendrils of light, my soul, and suck on the end of a jasmine flower,
Rather than on the old pipe full of tobacco, sour,
Rest in the embrace of an overstuffed, tufted chair,
With one finger, lazily spin the crackled globe, worn with care,
And try to avoid the gaze of the green glass toad,
For into that stare, I hear, is where Ulysses lost his men,
As into dread Charybdis.
Soul, should the record start to skip and slush,
Slowly stand, (for there is no need, here, to rush),
Untangle your legs from long creamy skirts,
And reset the phonograph’s needle to it’s right course;
Notice, Soul, the cat, peering through the window pane, amorphous,
Perhaps it is begging for a few drops of milk from the creamer of the tea service,
But it is impossible to tell with cats (for they are friends with glass frogs, you know).
Regard the unfinished letter on the desk,
See, Soul, the curl of smoke caress
The edges of the hot wax pot and then dance
With the sudden summer breeze that drifts through by chance,
From the green room, through the double glass doors, just there,
Whence the orchids are ready to bloom and the chirping of tiny bright finches is a fanfare,
A hungry one, perhaps.
Untrained in slow ease, the Mind will strive, wonder if it is bored,
And claim that it is languishing with each passing chord,
Of the stately grandfather clock; It will rally in remembrance
Of pirates and planets very far off, until it learns acceptance;
Soul, listen not to it’s convincing pleas for harder tasks,
Which are but worldly woes wearing feathered masks,
A knock on the door, a rustle of passing skirts and footsteps.
Pay no heed, Soul, for this is your sanctuary and visitors are not permitted to enter,
Return, Soul, to the overstuffed, tufted arm chair,
(After touching the rich tassels holding the drapes),
As if through a meadow, over the oriental rug, lightly traipse,
Turn your thoughts, again, to the sweet, sticky taste of jasmine
That somehow, is more refreshing today than a mint limeade ever has been,
And pick up your paintbrush.
The still life, before you, Soul, is quite the challenge,
The tumbling flowers, arranged last Tuesday, now show heat and time’s damage,
And the green glass frog is too, perched on the table below,
If you dare to glance at it, with it’s eyes, twill eagerly swallow,
But paint on, Soul, for the horse in the painting above the desk dared you to,
At this juncture, it would be impolite if you withdrew,
Paint on, paint on.
Hold up your thumb, Soul, to avoid the glassy abyss,
The watery fate of all the friends of Odysseus,
With each smear and stroke, the still life nears completion,
And so, Soul, you endure some depletion,
As you bring into the golden world, a new creation,
Requiring, of yourself, some exertion,
In a race with the horse and the sunlight.
Hat Box Chronicle 