The Doll

Why do you put me on this pedestal?
The metal rod hurts like hell.
My body marred with time;

empty bisque shell,

my splendor gone to the wayside.

I come from greatness: exquisite.

I am a Jumeau—his hands,

like God’s.

Memories haunt my mind

of carriages and little girls,

twirling in silks and muslin,

theirs no less than yours.

A thousand little caresses

passed on and on

to you,

Their adoration lost,
in the slow tapping
of time.
My delusions of grandeur
end now, with you.

Tears—murky water
stain my satin bows and pinafores.

I wore them with pride.

Soft, small hands
caressed my silken strands,
black as night,
now tucked away in twelve years
of dust and grime.

My eyes gleam bright
in the kaleidoscope light.
Azure blue, like yours.
Faded with time,
and respite.

I am tired of spiders,
weaving their silk tales
on me every night.

I am tired of moths,
nocturnal feasting mouths
on my brittle clothes.

My china face you awed,
I did yours every night.
The tap-tap chips away
till I am nothing,

but dust and dry bone.

© K.D. Schultz

Lost in Hemingway

Photo Source: Wikimedia

Ernest--
The Seine laps the Left Bank,
Softly penetrating deaf ears.
Clicking feet meander down
Boulevard de Montparnasse.
Do not yield to the call
The one that you heard, always
Always, in Montparnasse.

Ernest--
She looks for you down Rue Delambre.
The Dingo Bar, now a restaurant,
Obliterates memories
Of days long gone, when
Streets teemed with brilliance.
Electric air--charged
With the mind of the God.

Pen and paper like dry bones
Are reborn with flash and beeps,
Fingers clicking, devoid of inspiration.

She only wants you--
Ernest Hemingway.
Only you and only yours.

© K.D. Schultz

Ghosts of My Blood

Ghosts of my blood beckon me home,
Like ancestors, I brave gunmetal water.
Toward England's shore I've never known,
Her arms stretch out, enveloping her daughter.

How many have trespassed this tower
Of gray and stone? How many roam
The crooked streets to marvel at its wonder?
Ghosts of my blood beckon me home.

Big Ben stares into the dark night alone
I keep him company in the wee small hour,
Crossing London Bridge, stepping into the unknown
Like ancestors, I brave gunmetal water.

I breathe in the night of Westminister's power.
Starlight falls across St. Paul's dome.
Familiar stirrings fill my soul to wander
Toward England's shore I've never known.

Bestowing centuries of wisdom renowned.
The voices, long ago called to the Father.
The soul: rising, wanting, long foregone,
Her arms stretched out, enveloping her daughter.

The Thames brings life in blood and water.
England's children come back to roam
In London's dark bones and mortar.
I join them, open the mind to its tome, Ghosts of my blood.

© K.D. Schultz