Dear Celia, I Know You Hate Liars But I'm Writing You Regardless
by Shannon Adele
When you stood there and told everyone
you were a rose I didn't
believe you. You said symbols followed
you, your whole life. I didn't believe
that either. But maybe you meant
something more like flowers
are solitude or some other
poem. When you told me
at that table the importance of the sun
and water and oxygen, I couldn't deny
your flower. Your sons and daughter
and cat and cat and cat and cat
probably can't either. But Celia,
I feel like you should give yourself
more credit. I'm pretty sure that even
a rose would try and hook a thorn
into the back of someone teetering
consciously over that ledge.
Author's Note: When people tell you what to write about.
Posted on 10/12/2008
Copyright © 2019 Shannon Adele
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 10/12/08 at 07:54 PM|
Familiar imagery used in a unique way.
|Posted by Laura Doom on 12/09/08 at 04:42 PM|
...this is what transpires? A kind of self-fulfilling prosody, though I have no idea what that means. [spondee, s'il vous platt]
Roses are read - blah blah blah - and so are you. I like it here...
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 12/06/10 at 03:41 PM|
liar or no liar, I think Celia would be proud to have written this ode which cannot lie to save the splendid ink it was written in from fading. this ode is here to stay, forever to remain vivid in the eyes for eons.