As doors go, this is a much prettier door than a cellar door.
After I wrote my poem, forgottenman apprised me of the significance of “cellar door“—that being that many consider it to be one of the most beautiful phrases in the English language, apart from its meaning. Since I had already written my poem using “cellar door” in its literal sense, I published my first post anyway but now feel compelled to rebut it as one of the most beautiful phrases (or words) in the English language and to suggest a few more. Propinquity is one, although I still have to look it up every time I hear it. Ascendency is another, as is onomatopoeia–but that is too obvious a choice. Parsimonious or terrarium. Gondola. Pandemonium. Okay. It’s getting late and let’s face it. There are lots of beautiful words in the English language, and in my estimation, cellar door isn’t even in the running.
Pop up from your basement and slam the cellar door. You don’t want a beaver chewing through your floor. Plug up all the chimneys so birdies won’t fly in. The only ones you should admit are your friends and kin.
Build a wall around you. Do only what you’ve done. Letting in those foreign thoughts surely won’t be fun. Do not talk to strangers. Speak only to your kind. Hearing other points of view just clutters up your mind.
What you know is all there is so do not search for more. Board up all your windows. That’s what boards are for. Do not let other cultures in, for the world is strange, and if you let the world in, you may have to change.
All day long, I gobble gobble. Strut my stuff over the cobble proud and straight, without a wobble, until a man comes with a hobble. I’d tell the rest if I were able, Instead, I’m laid out on your table!
Sometimes I am d-lighted and sometimes I’m d-pressed. D-cidedly eclectic in what feelings are expressed. Yet d-rision is a concept that goes right o’er my head, If I had wanted criticism, might as well have wed.
I wish I’d set the truth aside. I wish instead that I had lied when you asked the reason why I didn’t choose the other guy. I wish I’d said you’d won my heart quickly, from the very start.
But, alas, I told the truth. Blame it on my careless youth. It was, perhaps, naïveté that made me answer you that way. I said you were my second choice, then heard that quaver in your voice.
For all those years forever after, I’ve recalled your bitter laughter as you said you guessed you’d wait for the type of girl who’d rate you first when making her selection, and thus began your swift defection.
After all these years, I’ll tell
that I remember very well
regrets I suffered at your leaving—
all those nights of futile grieving.
Watching as you met your wife,
had your kids and built your life.
Every few years at class reunions
as we all share our fond communions,
I’ll catch your eye and feel the spark
that goes unnoticed in the dark.
And every day, until I die,
I’ll wish I’d told that little lie.
It was just a small hotel, the only I could find. I felt lucky to find it, for I was in a bind. I hadn’t planned to stop here, but snow began to fall and I could not seem to see the road at all.
The walls were thin as paper and the folks next door enjoyed one hour of passion, then tried for one hour more. Both were very vocal in making their demands about what the other should do with lips and hands.
Those classes in dictation I had to take at school that I never thought I’d use now became a tool to record their dialogue, and when the night was through I took out my computer to do what writers do.
Every cry of passion, every scream and moan although I cannot claim it for my very own I can still incorporate in my coming story, using strangers’ passion for my creative glory.
The prompt was: You’ve obtained a journal — one with a multitude of confessions inside, but you don’t know who this book of secrets belongs to. What do you do with it? Feel free to alter this prompt for your own purposes.