The House of EarlSearing sweet blood
Is the mark of the house of Earl,
Now tumbled upon the hill.
The hunting lawns over-run with bracken
The gardens filled with black Gothic stone
Wine cellars stocked with charcoal lumber
Descended from floors above.
Here it was, some years ago
There dwelt the daughter of a viscount.
Long years she lived alone
Despairing after the death of the count and countess.
She haunted the dusty halls,
The servants long since deserted,
The manor and its furnishings
Her only possessions and only company.
Never did she venture down into the town
But she locked up her doors
And pulled the velvet curtains, save one
From which she looked silently on the town
And its cheerful bustle, like a living doll house.
There she wallowed in the musky darkness
Of her dead parents' house
Watching over the town like the moon over the sea.
No one knows how or when he came
Nor how he gained the young countess' confidence,
But come he did, and a dark hold he kept
On the daughter of the house.
Wabi Sabi in the Farmland"I think I'm going to write about that old fence out front," I said to my mother after wandering around the house and failing to find an object that fit my subject.
"There's not much left of that old fence," she said.
"I know. That's the point."
After a discussion about whether or not I should take the dog out with me I headed across the yard toward the road with my white mop of a mutt leading the way.
The fence, an old wood-post and barbed wire affair, is no longer recognizable as a fence, except in the impression of what it must have been. It runs along the south side of our front yard for about fifteen feet in from the road. When we first built the house about ten years ago the fence, though already falling apart, formed a superfluous barrier between our yard and the strip of cornfield next door, and the wide grassy field beyond that. At the end of the fence, the hedge row began, forming a natural wall between properties. Back then when my dad was building the house the hedgerow was
21 and -Not- Ready to PartyIt's 7:30 on a Saturday night and I'm sitting in Murphy's Pub with my boyfriend, Reid, his brother Dan, and our friend Lynsey. We are celebrating my 21st birthday, which was actually the Monday before. The waitress comes and I order my first drink ever: a strawberry daiquiri. During the previous week I spent much time considering what type of drink to try first. I came to the conclusion that sweet drinks are my favorite: chocolate milk, strawberry melon Tropicana, watermelon flavored Snapple. After a discussion with my parents and my friends we decided strawberry daiquiri would be best.
I order the drink, but the waitress tells me it's out of season. Drinks have seasons? I look at Reid for help.
"Don't ask me, I don't know anything about mixed drinks."
"Are you looking for something fruity?"
"She can't drink beer, she doesn't like the bubbles," Reid explains.
"Oh, are you 21?" the waitress finally asks. It's more of a "you're new to this, aren't you" sort of question than a "are you su
The OldThey were in the ballroom dancing
and she was alone upstairs
watching them swirling below.
Jeremy with the iced pastry was laughing
It looked like a turtle
He was drunk on red wine anyway.
A girl in pink led her down the worn wood stairs
and it seemed everyone
was wearing dark masks.
At the bottom she tried to dance
but Henry was watching
smiling through dim light.
Why hadn't he smiled like this before?
In the Victorian house with rose petals
he was smiling and wore no mask.
He took her gloved hand in invitation
they spun clumsily and he smiled
and she couldn't tell if it was a mask
Looking at her naked face, he was telling her
the lace, the antiques,
the lipstick was real.
She told herself over and over that it was false
but he was smiling at her
and she was weak, wanting despair.
She had given him up, but she felt herself remembering
and she felt her mind struggling,
crying it's only a dream!
She sat up in bed, still feeling the warmth of the ballroom.
The man with the pastry had die