Inspiration Is Everywhere

Fabric Softener

Someone is washing clothes downstairs
And the smell of fabric softener
Drifts through the vent into my room.
It’s such a very small thing,
Practically nothing,
Yet brings a smile to my lips
And contentment to my troubled mind.
So soothing and so comforting
Is that scent so clean and fresh,
So lovely and familiar.
The smell of sunny summers past
And also cozy winters.
A smell that brings back memories,
A smell that puts me right at ease,
A smell so perfect, so clean.
Fabric softener, lavender, clean sheets,
Clean clothes, clean towels
Used to dry my long wet hair.
All these thoughts now come to me,
Thanks to laundry done downstairs.

The Museum

The old museum is just down the street,
It’s been there decades, perhaps centuries.
Filled with oddities, it gives us the creeps,
Making us jump with fright and shriek.
Decrepit old school desks from generations now passed,
Dusty old diamonds behind dusty old glass.
Rusty old necklaces with rusted-shut clasps,
Magnificent ancients that bring us to gasp.
In wonder we wander the tapestried rooms,
Marveling at pocket watches and witches brooms.
Lost in a spider’s web of forgotten history,
We traipse about, finding old mysteries.
For hours and hours, we lose our way,
Whiling away another dog day,
Enraptured by love stories, untold tales
Of sugarplum fairy girls and boys in chain mail.
Faded dresses of velvet and lace
On mannequins with their own dead-eyed grace,
Tail-coats and top hats are also in place
Next to the flute in the silk-lined case.
Instruments trapped in cages of glass,
So lonely, it’s been ages since they were played last.
Dead and stuffed parrots in their brass prisons,
Their feathers now faded from cobalt and crimson.
Soon we are hopelessly stuck in here too,
But together at least are we, me and you.
Soon we’ll become part of this ancient museum,
Though it’s really no more than an old mausoleum.

Into Our Eyes

Stars hang by their cobwebbed strings,
Dangling from high ceilings.
Twisting, twirling, subtly spinning,
Taking our minds off of our petty sinning.
Brainwashing, quiet, like baby’s breath
Are their secrets that soon will bring death.
Our lives are so insignificant
In the grand scheme of things,
Yet we are really magnificent
When we wake and push off our disease.
Taking in literature, music and culture
Wards of the evil-eyed circling vulture,
Bringing a small accomplishment,
And filling us with sweet astonishment.
The stars shine their dusty light on us,
And we are beautiful, though all in rust.
The cobwebbed strings now break all at once,
The stars falling from the darkening sky,
And as we look up from beneath the trees,
The stars fall right into our eyes.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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Inspiration Is Everywhere

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