A lake house seemed such a romantic idea, a place for respite when the world overwhelmed. Little did I know, when I bought the place, she had her own ideas.
The first time we stayed, our dog disappeared.
The second time, my husband got injured.
The third time was when we began to see that the house was unwelcoming us, for she moved to the middle of the lake in the night and we nearly drowned in our sleep.
We tried once more when she moved back to land, to visit and do some repairs. She started a fire and we barely escaped, so now she’s on the market again.
I realize now why she was so affordable, and I almost feel guilty selling her. But now we have so many medical and therapy bills to pay, that we need to recoup some of our loss.
How do we recover when foundations go missing? The certainty with which we spoke of reality, as though stable forces controlled destiny, becomes tenuous. Others blather on with their platitudes and absolute truisms, while we nod along, attempting to maintain a neutral expression. The walls that once protected us are long gone.
It was many a long age ago, In a village by the sea, That a woman was found washed ashore By the name of Annabel Lee; She was barely alive but wanted nothing more Than to hide her identity.
She was so young, so very young, In this village by the sea, But she cared for her friends and grew strong— This lovely Annabel Lee— She held her secrets close to her chest So she could remain free.
But one cold, lonely night, In this village by the sea, She decided to share her long sad tale The mysterious Annabel Lee; She faked her death to escape a man And boarded a ship to flee,
But the ship was wrecked and that is how She washed up with the debris. She didn’t know why she was cursed so, Why Heaven would not let her be— Or why the man who claimed her soul Would not set her free. That is why she faked her death, The brave Annabel Lee.
But she feared he would find her The man she did flee— The man she tried to flee— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Could protect her now from the evil man Who was obsessed with Annabel Lee;
So our village, her people, we crowded around To protect our Annable Lee; And when a man arrived to find the tomb Of the beautiful Annabel Lee We took him to an old corpse we dug up And dressed in a wedding gown And there he lived by the sea— With someone he thought was Annabel Lee.
@Home Studio – 291st poem of the year (A response to Poe’s “Annabel Lee”)
Runner ups for the Lady by the Sea photos to accompany my poem:
“O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.” -Romeo, Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare
We contain multitudes: eloquent silence good grief poor health loyal opposition loud whisper sad smile sweet sorrow unbiased opinion seriously funny random order open secret minor miracle only choice definite maybe deceptively honest clearly misunderstood civil war bittersweet alone together genuine imitation impossible solution intense apathy living dead silent scream same difference friendly takeover even odds cruel kindness conspicuous absence cheerful pessimist loving hate
@Home Studio – 287th poem of the year
Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616. Romeo and Juliet, 1597. Oxford :published for the Malone Society by Oxford University Press, 2000.
Runner ups for the Happy Sad photos to accompany my poem:
Her celestial body is draped in gossamer galaxies and lacy luminosities with flecks of infinite cosmic dust and gauzy strands of nebulae birthing baby stars.
Her swaying form catapults asteroids across the billowy folds of organza and satin, hurtling dark matter across crests of supernovae, bespeckling interstellar silk.
If this was my room, I would never do anything but nap and watch the weather change her mind and write silly poems about dappled light and dancing clouds, and daydream after reading old love letters while listening to “Bésame Mucho” on Spanish guitar.
rebekahjmarshall 