03-01-2018, 07:44 PM
Revision#2
Oratorio
In thumbed pages, slow-turning, penned
by men stiff collared in candlelight, their names
unpronouncible to young tongues, I find you.
Your head resting on a scattering of dust covered pages,
glasses akimbo, legs creased. By your feet, a teapot.
Wool cosied, breath perfumed sweet. Your eyes closed
as Jennens’ oratorio whispers in your ear.
You look much like me but older; simpler more reserved.
In thumbed pages, slow turning, I first notice your hands.
Funny little stick men live between thumb and pointer.
It looks like you’ve doodled them. Didn’t Granny tell you,
not to draw on yourself? Was there a shortage of paper
when you were young?
In thumbed pages, slow turning, I find you;
head resting on a scattering of dusted pages
your glasses akimbo, legs creased. You squint to see me,
eyes swimming through the dark. I can’t sleep and you
beckon me to you…
No longer flesh and blood but ink smeared paper,
your face is lost, forgotten, hidden somewhere amongst adjectives,
expletives and verbs.
In thumbed pages, slow turning, you have gone.
Revision#1
Oratorio
In thumbed pages, slow-turning, penned
by men stiff collared in candlelight, their names
unpronouncible to young tongues, I find you
Head resting on a scattering of dust covered pages,
your glasses akimbo, legs creased. By your feet,
warm hearted and wool cosied, breath perfumed sweet,
a teapot. Jennens’ oratorio whispers in your ear.
You look much like me, but older, simpler more reserved.
In thumbed pages, slow turning, I first notice your hands.
Funny little stick men live between thumb and pointer.
It looks like you’ve doodled them. Didn’t Granny tell you,
not to draw on yourself? Was there a shortage of paper
when you were young?
In thumbed pages, slow turning, I find you.
Head resting on a scattering of dusted pages
your glasses akimbo, legs creased. You stir to see me,
small palms pushing on the door. I can’t sleep and you
beckon me over…
no longer flesh and blood but ink smeared paper,
your is face lost, forgotten, hidden somewhere amongst adjectives,
expletives and verbs.
It is in thumbed pages, slow turning, I find that you have gone.
After a few technical issues and me seemingly not having the original saved here is what was originally posted before some rather unfortunate deletes.
Oratorio
It is in thumbed pages,
slow-turning, penned by men
stiff collared in candle light
their names unpronouncible
to young tongues, that I find you
Head resting on a scattering
of smudged pages your glasses akimbo,
your legs creased. Your shirt tails are
dysfunctional, as you would say each morning
when I on the way to school would try to
sneak out shirt untucked and top button un-done,
I was setting a example of both myself and you,
I understand that now.
It is in thumbed pages, slow turning
that you have that warm hearted
and wool cosied, teapot with its breath a sweet perfume
sat ever present by your feet.
It’s whistling Jennens’ oratorio.
It is in thumbed pages,
slow-turning, that the topography
of your face is written, it’s formed in simple words.
I can see them, finger running from adjective, expletive
to verb, your features are simple and reserved. They look much
like mine but older. Your hair is crumpled on your scalp,
when was the last time it saw a brush?
It is in thumbed pages,
slow turning, that I first notice your hands.
Funny little stick men live between
your thumb and pointer it looks like
you’ve doodled them. Didn’t Granny
tell you not to draw on yourself?
Was there a shortage of paper
when you were young?
It is in thumbed pages,
slow turning, dense beyond belief
that I find you. Head resting on a scattering
of smudged pages your glasses akimbo,
your legs creased. You stir to see me, small palms
pushing on the door. I can’t sleep and you
beckon me to you…
It is on turning the page that I find you’re gone
no longer flesh and blood but ink smeared paper,
your is face lost again, forgotten,
hidden somewhere amongst adjectives, expletives and verbs.
Oratorio
In thumbed pages, slow-turning, penned
by men stiff collared in candlelight, their names
unpronouncible to young tongues, I find you.
Your head resting on a scattering of dust covered pages,
glasses akimbo, legs creased. By your feet, a teapot.
Wool cosied, breath perfumed sweet. Your eyes closed
as Jennens’ oratorio whispers in your ear.
You look much like me but older; simpler more reserved.
In thumbed pages, slow turning, I first notice your hands.
Funny little stick men live between thumb and pointer.
It looks like you’ve doodled them. Didn’t Granny tell you,
not to draw on yourself? Was there a shortage of paper
when you were young?
In thumbed pages, slow turning, I find you;
head resting on a scattering of dusted pages
your glasses akimbo, legs creased. You squint to see me,
eyes swimming through the dark. I can’t sleep and you
beckon me to you…
No longer flesh and blood but ink smeared paper,
your face is lost, forgotten, hidden somewhere amongst adjectives,
expletives and verbs.
In thumbed pages, slow turning, you have gone.
Revision#1
Oratorio
In thumbed pages, slow-turning, penned
by men stiff collared in candlelight, their names
unpronouncible to young tongues, I find you
Head resting on a scattering of dust covered pages,
your glasses akimbo, legs creased. By your feet,
warm hearted and wool cosied, breath perfumed sweet,
a teapot. Jennens’ oratorio whispers in your ear.
You look much like me, but older, simpler more reserved.
In thumbed pages, slow turning, I first notice your hands.
Funny little stick men live between thumb and pointer.
It looks like you’ve doodled them. Didn’t Granny tell you,
not to draw on yourself? Was there a shortage of paper
when you were young?
In thumbed pages, slow turning, I find you.
Head resting on a scattering of dusted pages
your glasses akimbo, legs creased. You stir to see me,
small palms pushing on the door. I can’t sleep and you
beckon me over…
no longer flesh and blood but ink smeared paper,
your is face lost, forgotten, hidden somewhere amongst adjectives,
expletives and verbs.
It is in thumbed pages, slow turning, I find that you have gone.
After a few technical issues and me seemingly not having the original saved here is what was originally posted before some rather unfortunate deletes.
Oratorio
It is in thumbed pages,
slow-turning, penned by men
stiff collared in candle light
their names unpronouncible
to young tongues, that I find you
Head resting on a scattering
of smudged pages your glasses akimbo,
your legs creased. Your shirt tails are
dysfunctional, as you would say each morning
when I on the way to school would try to
sneak out shirt untucked and top button un-done,
I was setting a example of both myself and you,
I understand that now.
It is in thumbed pages, slow turning
that you have that warm hearted
and wool cosied, teapot with its breath a sweet perfume
sat ever present by your feet.
It’s whistling Jennens’ oratorio.
It is in thumbed pages,
slow-turning, that the topography
of your face is written, it’s formed in simple words.
I can see them, finger running from adjective, expletive
to verb, your features are simple and reserved. They look much
like mine but older. Your hair is crumpled on your scalp,
when was the last time it saw a brush?
It is in thumbed pages,
slow turning, that I first notice your hands.
Funny little stick men live between
your thumb and pointer it looks like
you’ve doodled them. Didn’t Granny
tell you not to draw on yourself?
Was there a shortage of paper
when you were young?
It is in thumbed pages,
slow turning, dense beyond belief
that I find you. Head resting on a scattering
of smudged pages your glasses akimbo,
your legs creased. You stir to see me, small palms
pushing on the door. I can’t sleep and you
beckon me to you…
It is on turning the page that I find you’re gone
no longer flesh and blood but ink smeared paper,
your is face lost again, forgotten,
hidden somewhere amongst adjectives, expletives and verbs.