Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,196 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

In The Ghostly Cauldron Of Her Eternal Soiree - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My dimes of civility should pay
For hours of blowing glass;
Then to look up from tall strangers
And fall in love with the prettiest
Girl behind stained glass:
This is my some kind of religion blowing
Like kisses from the key stone of
The overpass;
This is the dead fall in the ditches,
The donkeys bothered by spikenard and
And if my mother asked me, I would concede
That I can still fly,
But there would have to be some concessions;
I couldn’t go outside anymore to foreplay in the
Working class malls of Michigan or
And she wouldn’t raise anymore her eyes to my
Broken promises, all the foreign flowers
Which have fallen out of the brotherhood of
My hands
And gone to war:
She would have to fall in love with another,
Of this I am unwontedly sure;
She still stands there playing to the music boxes
Of my mind,
Like a stalwart young hiker pirouetting like
A dream in the tallest basins above tree line:
Eerie, and dancing and pleasing as a flower
Sipping its photosynthetic drinks,
Curling its lashes obnoxiously flirting, calling in
The whip flashing lightning to come and
Bask in the ghostly cauldron of her eternal soirée.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, February 7, 2010

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