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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIYKK_gHZgo&ab_channel=LyricTown

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And in the dark room 

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Above the stairs, the half-furnished one

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With torn pieces of patchworked carpet - 

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Mimicking the semblance 

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And distant resemblance 

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Of a congenial, children's carriage - 

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In the room 

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Where a paper lantern spins

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And a praxinoscope

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Throws a kaleidoscope -

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A solar system 

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Of aurora borealis 

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And the distantly kindred cosmos 

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Of a painted-children's-apparatus - 

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Against the pale, dull plaster 

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Of the bedroom's hanging walls,

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So too,

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Sits the cradle.

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While both outside

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And in, a storm rages on -

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While the downpour reaches

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From the dampening eaves 

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And into the crevices of the ceiling -

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While the wind wreaks its havoc

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Upon the exterior shield 

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Of hardie-board siding, feathered 

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Under 

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Proof and layered stripes 

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Of water-wash and acrylic, 

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So the child, too, storms

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Against the vibrating and vertical bars 

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That framed the safety of her crib.

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And while she cries, throwing

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What sleight weight she has

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Against the edges of her room,

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So too

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Does the house shake 

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Beneath a tumultuous burden 

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And sudden weight, smashing,

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From the kitchen cupboards up 

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And into the recesses of her skylight.

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And while thunder flashes

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And electrically charged streaks, break 

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Against the shadowed pattern 

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That'd been spinning upon the walls -

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While the weather works its way in,

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Pushes through,

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Flooding its way under the basement

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And filling the casements in the kitchen,

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So too, does the child's crib succumb.

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And while the baby cries

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And as the bed becomes a rowboat,

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And the crib a little prison,

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Still … the storm rages on …

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While below 

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The striking clatter 

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Of climactic cymbals, echoed behind

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The percussion instrument and pounding drums 

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Of parents, and parent's problems,

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Rages, still, ever and nightly on …

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So too, does the child, 

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Against the bars that can't be helped, 

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The paddles without handles 

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And the leaking dingy, caught, 

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Within the torment of her storm.

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And while the shouts and shatters 

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Performed by lovers, tear 

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Against the paper and the walls,

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And while the house itself 

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Comes, invariably 

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And inevitably, undone,

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So still the storm rages on,

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Striking 

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Below the room 

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At the top of the stairs 

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And oblivious, to what they'd done.

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Author's Note

(fiction)

(rough draft)

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Well, you just can't tell what goes on behind closed doors, can you? There may very well be a violent storm occurring outside, but the real storm is raging within. This is a home torn by strife, and the one most affected is the child in the crib. She struggles against the negative vibrations that are spreading darkness through the house, but is imprisoned by the frame of her crib. At the end the house is coming undone, but the angry words rage on, oblivious to the pain of the victim in the crib. Such homes are the breeding grounds of future personality disorders.

[Ookpik]

It's certainly not a pretty picture. I'm no expert, but I'd expect it leaves a mark.

In this one it's the spinning carousel/praxinoscope image that I wanted to stand out - the universe in the child's head, so new that it can fill something as small as a bedroom, and yet undone as the house comes apart. There's something to that that I was trying touch upon, though I think I missed it in the final lines.

Thanks for reading John.

-Ook

[Ookpik]

trying to**