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the house without chrysanthemums

a poem about a house and that's all

By R.C. TaylorPublished 11 months ago 1 min read
8
the house without chrysanthemums
Photo by Niklas Ohlrogge on Unsplash

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

surreal poetryperformance poetry
8

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 and other affairs of the heart).

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

Top insights

  1. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

  2. Eye opening

    Niche topic & fresh perspectives

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Comments (6)

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  • Donna Renee11 months ago

    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.

  • Loryne Andawey11 months ago

    "...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. 👏

  • Shane Dobbie11 months ago

    Nice work. Moody and evocative

  • This is kind of sad yet beautiful at the same time. I love it.

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