Rolling Up the Wall


Esme's Cloud

The accumulator calumniator:
A spender in dark mottled splendour
Which has coined a thousand phrases
Drops — never has it fallen so far.
Caught, it tic-tacs forwards
On crenulated tipster toes
Blind clothed in well-groped garb,
Seemingly heaven cent,
Dimed if it don’t
And dimmed if it does
It plucks from thin air a dare
That pays as it plays —
You have to be in it to win it.

The thoughtful sleight-of-handed
Celestial performer holds it close,
Tucked tight in hermetic fisted fingers;
Then undulates the opposite metacarpus
— In for one, in for one and all —
And so begins a slow unfolding
Of perfectly oiled, slick digits.
A dark-veined nail brings its bad-odds goods
To the tableau and . . . flicks
Pure pertinent luck,
Felicity spun from day to night
As up, up, up she goes and where she lands
Is a bluff of the prose.

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About Jonathan Caswell

Mr. Caswell has been composing poetry at least since High School. He has been on WORD PRESS for ten years and contributes to two other blogs beside this one. This blog has a Christian emphasis but all bloggers are welcome. Mr. Caswell chooses to---with permission--re[post material of interest

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