Quickwords Vol. 12 – At the door

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?


It’s who?

It’s the twelfth volume of Quickwords, my poetry series! Welcome, all, and happy reading!

A circular silver doorknob on a dark brown door. A hand lifts a key towards the doorknob’s lock.

| As the door is to the hall |

It is said often with a prophet’s tongue the adage
That when one door is to close
Another is to open
Heed the augurs’ proverb and know
That the doors care not for each other’s shut and ajar
But in an infinite maze of hallways
There will always be a welcoming threshold
Duty lies with the weathered hunter
For none shall be a guide save one’s own eyes and feet

| When the door opens |

When the door opens
A framing beam of light shines through
And it’s a bit easier to see the dust floating in the air beside the bookshelf

When the door opens
A tiny draft of chilly air kicks in
And turns the page of the novel on my lap before I’m done reading

When the door opens
Thumping footsteps shake the floor
And everywhere, tranquil waters tremble within their glasses

When the door opens
The silence falls to angered command
And the fire, always one to whisper pleasantries, hushes until a leatherbound soul enters its burning embrace

| The Graceful Descent of Morgan Yaeger Keyes |

A defiant little set of keys with the audacity to relent at the gate to rest
As if it, not having done anything since morning,
Not having walked miles and talked wild, worked hard and worked hard,
Held any right to refuse the sole purpose of its momentary summons
I watch, defeated, as it swan dives from my hand
Seeming an Olympic athlete, smiling and waving to its working class parents
Before performing an irritatingly elegant departure
A graceful descent, wisping through the evening air
Nearly in slowfall, delicate music echoing from the heavens
Perhaps an angelic, dreadful soprano reminiscent of one’s final moments
The woven threads of time coursing around its momentous plunge
As if a falling star, lost from celestial divinity
But more truthfully like a pancake you drop because the handle of your pan breaks
My tired eyes sink to the ground as the keys thud, jingling with exasperating volume
And I think only one thing:

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