Yellowed Parchment

A poem about the struggles of art, life, and broken hearts. My first entry here, because my friend Joli said she really enjoyed this one.

A dim, incandescent glow reflected off his yellowed parchment
Alarmingly empty, as his pen dripped blots of regret
Between snowflake shaped stains of sweat and tears
Ghostly reflections of street lamps skewed on the window pane
Now flowing with rivers of rain

The rain never seems to end in this life
Sunny days are appreciable, but few
Serving only as a warning of the torrents that threaten tomorrow

Still, the parchment mocked him
And his inability to conjure thoughts into words
Or thoughts into coherent thoughts

His mind swirled and crawled about with the rain on the glass
And the ominous shadows of the tree branches shaking in the wind
Shaking as his hands shook now
Trembling
He reached for the amber bottle
A little something to settle him
To calm the thunderclaps in his head
The dirty glass sitting beside him
Days old from nights engrossed in the nothingness he was
Reflected by the incandescent glow on the yellowed parchment
He poured the glass full
He drank, and he waited
And he drank
The blank parchment mocking him
And he drank
And when he returned the empty glass to its spot on the table
Defined by the stains of incomplete rings
Defined by the nights spent engrossed in the nothingness he was
Defined by the cycles of his incomplete existence
The incandescent glow traced shadows of the sticky liquid
Clinging to the sides of the dirty glass
And for a moment his thoughts were lost
In the shadows from the glass
The shadows of the rain still crawling on the window pane

He pushed away from the desk
Stumbling toward his corner chest of drawers
His pen rolled unattended to the floor
Leaving blots of regret
Dripping between the shadows of the rain

He rubbed his eyes for focus
And pulled open the top drawer
Sifting through linen handkerchiefs
Threadbare socks, with holes he never mended
Holes worn from the rough soles of his worn out shoes
And the rough edges of his calloused feet
He found an old cigar box
Somewhere from behind the handkerchiefs and the forgotten socks
Somewhere from the past
Somewhere from the regret
Somewhere from the promises never fulfilled

As the empty parchment mocked him still

He returned to his desk
His blurry vision still lost and distracted by the shadows of liquid on glass
And the shadows of rain
And the branches that trembled with his hands
As the cigar box trembled with him
He placed it down on the yellowed parchment
He picked up the bottle
And once again filled the dirty glass
And he drank from it
Exposing for the moment the incomplete rings
Alongside the mocking, empty parchment
Alongside the now open cigar box
Alongside the stains of tears and blots
His pen rolled aimlessly across the floor, leaving a trail of ink
Another dirty glass for the kitchen sink

Streetlights cast shadows across his face
Through the incandescent glow, on his somber pace
Rain and trees, crawling, flashing leaves
And the gunmetal gray now in his hand

Cold and impersonal

He felt the hard, smooth steel as he rubbed it on his stubble covered cheek
He put the pistol down on the table in front of him
Letting his fingertips linger on the cold, impersonal grip
He rubbed his stubble with his dry, and stiffened palm
Exhaling a loud, and forlorned sigh
As another tear fell from his eye
He picked up his pen off the floor
Smudging the trail of ink a little more
The mocking parchment still staring back from the desk
A gun resting within his reach
His bottle and glass, with incomplete rings
Shadows crawling on glass
Like the thoughts he tried so hard to put away
Thinking of the words he wanted to say

So he sits in the incandescent glow
His consciousness fading slow
Mocked by the parchment, but not the steel
Compelled by dreams he still might feel
Life out of reach, but not out of sight
He placed the gun back in the box, and closed the lid tight
He closed the drapes to the storm outside
To calm the storm inside his head, and the ache within his heart
And turned out the incandescent light

Tomorrow is another day

Let the yellowed parchment wait another night

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Once I held a 30-30 rifle in my hands. A phone call from a dear grandmother saved me.
"He placed the gun back in the box, and closed the lid tight
He closed the drapes to the storm outside
To calm the storm inside his head, and the ache within his heart
And turned out the incandescent light"
The above lines. I understood. The poetry. Honest, strong and you held the reader to the last words. Thank you for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote

[Paul in the Buff]

I'm glad we've both put the gun back in the box consistently through our lives. Thank you for your comments, and sharing your own experiences. Art is good for that - two strangers recognizing some of themselves through each other's expressions of vulnerability and finding some comfort in the knowledge that we are not alone in this world.

[Eilis]

There will always be another night to try again for the hero (or antihero) with the full heart. If they hold out. I like the rhythm of your story-poem. I like that you managed rhyme without that being the focus. The story drew my attention rather than the rhyme. The scene feels quite 19th century with the details you’ve chosen. I liked that aspect and thought of Bartleby the Scrivener as I read. I really enjoyed this.

[Paul in the Buff]

I am absolutely flattered by this comment! So glad you enjoyed my writing.

[Joli Dy]

This is not to be read. It is to be experienced. You're brilliant.

[Paul in the Buff]

Awww, shucks ma'am. Ya'h makin' me blush. *stuffs hands in pockets and kicks at the dirt*