the house without chrysanthemums
a poem about a house and that's all
There are no yellow chrysanthemums here,
only memories of chrysanthemums
climbing trellises too fragile to bear their weight.
Yew trees canopied the house,
sheltering it from soft sun that would drench
its broken eaves and boarded up windows
so that all could be revealed
along with with the rocks underneath the window sills.
It was a house that breathed.
Raspy and wet, it breathed
abandoned dreams and spiderwebs
into the air like catacombs.
Fireflies, going extinct due to
summers chased by glass jars
and ignorant laughter,
stayed curiously perched on the
peeling, crepe paint that called
to be picked at like finger beds, until it bled,
showing what is underneath.
*
There are no yellow chrysanthemums here
only memories of chrysanthemums
buoyed by the wind to still
move the tire swings by the creek
like the shushing rock of baby cradles.
Plush bunny with missing ear
and mismatched button eyes lay
by large boulder resting on disheveled
dirt. Weeds have taken over, dandelions
sprouting to control the weather
and make a snowstorm of wishes.
All of them passed by the house
without stopping to knock,
Pirouetting by the roof with missing
Shingles, past siding with poppy spray
painted words that they couldn’t read.
*
There are no yellow chrysanthemums here,
only memories of chrysanthemums
to the tune of which stars waltzed unseen
in a haze of blues, yellows, and reds.
Pools of water mirrored them, rippling
on the cedar porch due to chronic aches
and pains that creaked still.
By forgotten glasses, a broken leaf green
beer bottle is spawning a tiny garden,
growing plants from seeds yet to be seen
if they are flowers or weeds as time
continues to roar onwards.
Even the nearby tree does not know,
long ago having been skinned of switch branches,
and now only the trunk remains tall,
unable to reach up to the heavens without arms.
*
There are no yellow chrysanthemums here,
only memories of chrysanthemums.
What happened here—
the house without chrysanthemums
without chrysanthemums without chrysanthemums
without chrysanthemums
without chrysanthemums
without
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
Part-time daydreamer. Full-time dork.
Follow along for stories about a little bit of everything (i.e. adventure, nostalgia, and other affairs of the heart, and anything else I want to honor and hold space for).
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Eye opening
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
Comments (6)
Oooooh I love this and especially the mood in the ending ❤️❤️
Love how you wove this together with the house.
Your poem reminds me so much of the opening of "The Bluest Eye." I'm paraphrasing here, but the beginning sentence is: Quiet as it's kep, the flowers didn't bloom that year. Your poem is like an extended metaphor for what takes place in the novel.
"...Even the nearby tree does not know, long ago having been skinned of switch branches, and now only the trunk remains tall, unable to reach up to the heavens without arms." Of all the images you painted in this piece, this one stands out to me. The pain of a place stripped of joy and how it lingers upon those who abandoned it is palpable here. I applaud your skill. 👏
Nice work. Moody and evocative
This is kind of sad yet beautiful at the same time. I love it.