Nodding Brass Chimes and the Rain's Tonesby Michael Ladanyi That afternoon, the rain's pulse was steady, numb and grey, like the gathered and weighed regret of war. From the screened porch, consorted scents of magnolia's breath, damp grass and the white stone birdbath's rippling, shallow pool, spoke as blood would, had it a voice, it's edge worn and drawn, yet thick and pliable. I breathed the oak's rough, mossy bark, you were in my tears like a sweet hollowness produced by fingers evenly pressed, then pulled across thicker strings of an acoustic guitar. I thought of the cruelness that would be contained in those slow minutes if the rain were to stop, liquid memories of you in my eyes were to dry. The wind swam in maroon layers, into bodies of dimness that sat in green-beige, cushioned and wicker outdoor furniture, like quiet, consoling friends, while the long brass chimes you gave us last year, nodded like a priest at your door the day of a death. The rain grew until it became harsh whispers, the sound of many marbles dropped onto a wooden hall floor. And you were still in my eyes, refusing to leave, perhaps, I would not send you away. Suddenly, realizing how noble you stood in the melancholy tones that surrounded me, I opened the door that let into the kitchen and stepped inside, leaving the rain before it stopped. First published in, Poetic Reflections, received the Editors Choice and Poem of the Month Awards, copyright (C) April 2002. Copyright (C) 2002, Michael Ladanyi. Click here to visit Michael Ladanyi's Poetry Pages Graphics by KyEve TABLE OF PAGES HOME AMAZING AWARDS DISCLAIMER & COPYRIGHT FAMILY ALBUM GIFTS GREAT LINKS EMAIL GUESTBOOK EVE'S GRAPHICS GALLERY LUCID MOMENTS DIGITAL ART EXHIBIT
That afternoon, the rain's pulse was steady, numb and grey, like the gathered and weighed regret of war. From the screened porch, consorted scents of magnolia's breath, damp grass and the white stone birdbath's rippling, shallow pool, spoke as blood would, had it a voice, it's edge worn and drawn, yet thick and pliable. I breathed the oak's rough, mossy bark, you were in my tears like a sweet hollowness produced by fingers evenly pressed, then pulled across thicker strings of an acoustic guitar. I thought of the cruelness that would be contained in those slow minutes if the rain were to stop, liquid memories of you in my eyes were to dry. The wind swam in maroon layers, into bodies of dimness that sat in green-beige, cushioned and wicker outdoor furniture, like quiet, consoling friends, while the long brass chimes you gave us last year, nodded like a priest at your door the day of a death. The rain grew until it became harsh whispers, the sound of many marbles dropped onto a wooden hall floor. And you were still in my eyes, refusing to leave, perhaps, I would not send you away. Suddenly, realizing how noble you stood in the melancholy tones that surrounded me, I opened the door that let into the kitchen and stepped inside, leaving the rain before it stopped.