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Literature Text
Something happened to me today,
said Emily Jefferson Rosie May.
I fell behind the sofa's cushions.
I met Ben Franklin and Zander Pushkin,
and they told me how I could build trees
with leopard hairs and the white wings of fleas.
I've spent all day crafting the plants,
and now it's too late for me to dance;
I wanted to dance in the shade of the oaks,
oh how I wanted to eat wood smoke.
Emily's mother was basting the chicken
and the featherless coat was beginning to slicken
when suddenly our dear Emily May
thought she saw the bird glancing her way.
A rather odd sight, she quietly said,
for the chicken did no longer have a head.
After a minute she remembered the fleas.
They'd bitten her finger; she must be diseased.
To comfort herself she sang wordless songs
till her mommie looked up like something was wrong.
Her mother asked Where did you learn that tune?
and Emily said From a bug named June.
The thin hazel eyes of her mother grew round,
and with shaking old legs she slowly sat down.
Her mother said Emily Jefferson May,
I find I must say something now, right away.
She started off slowly, could not get it out,
so she cleared her throat and said in near-shout:
Things that you see are not always true.
I used to dream I had queenships and golden shoes.
And now look where I am, Emily May,
I'm wearing an apron and working all day.
Emily May just stared at the floor.
Her mother didn't trust gold shoes anymore,
and Emily thought maybe if she did
she wouldn't be slaving to make a few quid.
Maybe if she still had all her crowns
and her elven-princess hand-me-downs
they wouldn't be in such miserable shape.
Her mother mopped her sweating nape.
She said There are things I want to make
that I don't believe in, like foliage cake.
(How dearly I would love to bake
even one slice of foliage cake!)
Emily thought she should shake out her sleeves,
which were filled at the time with rust-colored leaves,
but finally decided she had better not
as her mother continued and seemed quite distraught:
You cannot ride sheep and you cannot catch stars,
you cannot keep heartbeats in your plastic jars.
Emily May felt that her veins were the sea
and her mom did not know what she just might be.
She thought of the sofa that afternoon,
how she'd filled all the cracks, how she'd stared down the moon,
how she'd stocked up her eyeballs with poetic visions
and helped save a greyhound with expert incisions.
Noise moved in waves there, there was no Doppler,
and she'd waltzed by the elms with a flame-sized grasshopper.
Tonight she would prove specters could laugh out loud;
tonight she would sleep with her pillow a cloud.
Emily May knew if she got on a bus
she'd find the town under where the couch was
and she'd live there and soak her days up with fish.
And she would take her mother; O how she wished
that her mother still had a heart pounding strong
with that faith in the stars when the days were long.
Miss May would hit asphalt with a bang—
her mother put hands up to stop what she sang.
I think it's best my dear, her mother then sighed,
if for a few weeks you just stayed inside.
said Emily Jefferson Rosie May.
I fell behind the sofa's cushions.
I met Ben Franklin and Zander Pushkin,
and they told me how I could build trees
with leopard hairs and the white wings of fleas.
I've spent all day crafting the plants,
and now it's too late for me to dance;
I wanted to dance in the shade of the oaks,
oh how I wanted to eat wood smoke.
Emily's mother was basting the chicken
and the featherless coat was beginning to slicken
when suddenly our dear Emily May
thought she saw the bird glancing her way.
A rather odd sight, she quietly said,
for the chicken did no longer have a head.
After a minute she remembered the fleas.
They'd bitten her finger; she must be diseased.
To comfort herself she sang wordless songs
till her mommie looked up like something was wrong.
Her mother asked Where did you learn that tune?
and Emily said From a bug named June.
The thin hazel eyes of her mother grew round,
and with shaking old legs she slowly sat down.
Her mother said Emily Jefferson May,
I find I must say something now, right away.
She started off slowly, could not get it out,
so she cleared her throat and said in near-shout:
Things that you see are not always true.
I used to dream I had queenships and golden shoes.
And now look where I am, Emily May,
I'm wearing an apron and working all day.
Emily May just stared at the floor.
Her mother didn't trust gold shoes anymore,
and Emily thought maybe if she did
she wouldn't be slaving to make a few quid.
Maybe if she still had all her crowns
and her elven-princess hand-me-downs
they wouldn't be in such miserable shape.
Her mother mopped her sweating nape.
She said There are things I want to make
that I don't believe in, like foliage cake.
(How dearly I would love to bake
even one slice of foliage cake!)
Emily thought she should shake out her sleeves,
which were filled at the time with rust-colored leaves,
but finally decided she had better not
as her mother continued and seemed quite distraught:
You cannot ride sheep and you cannot catch stars,
you cannot keep heartbeats in your plastic jars.
Emily May felt that her veins were the sea
and her mom did not know what she just might be.
She thought of the sofa that afternoon,
how she'd filled all the cracks, how she'd stared down the moon,
how she'd stocked up her eyeballs with poetic visions
and helped save a greyhound with expert incisions.
Noise moved in waves there, there was no Doppler,
and she'd waltzed by the elms with a flame-sized grasshopper.
Tonight she would prove specters could laugh out loud;
tonight she would sleep with her pillow a cloud.
Emily May knew if she got on a bus
she'd find the town under where the couch was
and she'd live there and soak her days up with fish.
And she would take her mother; O how she wished
that her mother still had a heart pounding strong
with that faith in the stars when the days were long.
Miss May would hit asphalt with a bang—
her mother put hands up to stop what she sang.
I think it's best my dear, her mother then sighed,
if for a few weeks you just stayed inside.
Literature
Pretty Blue Morning
Periwinkle sky Sun burning away the clouds Beautiful morning
Literature
Catching Butterflies
We were children once, children in blue shorts catching butterflies. We were kings and queens of our universe wearing daisy crowns. Yet, coming back to these dear old stomping grounds, they feel stale as if forgotten in the cookie jar for so long they wil crumble in our hands.
Literature
The limit
Mirror, mirror:
all of a sudden
everything will be clear -
as long as it isn't over today,
my ideals burnt
upon the altar
of a sharp melancholy:
exhausted of a sea
of wrecks and tangles,
with my spirit parched
for thirst of revolt,
for fear of oblivion;
beyond this incompleteness,
this continual weakness
my star, distant,
cradle of my heresies -
rock me timeless tide,
disappear soul of mine,
soft,
in the last reflection of light.
Sweetest land,
I am waiting still for the uncertain flower of your smile.
Suggested Collections
Not inspired by but bearing the influence of Pan's Labyrinth (see image). A beautiful movie, even if my Spanish is atrociously poor. The kid looks like Natalie Wood... I really think so.
Anyway I have been all over the place recently, and this is part of that. I don't know. It's hard to be epic in a shrinking world.
So here's one for the children.
Anyway I have been all over the place recently, and this is part of that. I don't know. It's hard to be epic in a shrinking world.
So here's one for the children.
© 2007 - 2024 yellowroses
Comments8
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This is an amazing example of why imagination is important in both children and adults.