Wocky Jivvy: Poetry and Art "When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops

divider line and nothing more


* Poetry: Poems by Claire

Night Walker

Before she sleeps, she patters to the door;
pink slippered feet count sixteen steps each time.
She jerks the lock to open, then to locked,
four times, a pause -- twice more, another pause.

The stove is next. Each burner lit, unlit.
Blue flames set leaping left to right and back.
Transfixed, eyes leaping with the flames, she counts;
hands flutter fast from knob to knob, she counts.

She whisper marks each move, each measured act,
a quiet spoken vow renewed each night.
Fixed litany to exile demon shades --
voracious souls who come and taste her dreams.

Exhausted, wearied, falling into bed;
a momentary cuddle with the sheets.
Eyes closed, fist clenched, she does not breathe. She weeps;
she counts. Resigned, she throws the blanket back.

Before she sleeps, she patters to the door;
pink slippered feet count sixteen steps each time.

Copyright © 1995 Claire A. Schaeffer

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