Bluebell Parasols

I can type in the dark

My fingers have eyes

—Cricket goggles

Thus, I write the way I play the piano—Jazz hands—

Eyes smoked and salty

The Angel’s Snare.

I wink at  the stars and at persons who think themselves stellar.

Crickets are my Kin

I love to sit in the dark

When all are asleep


The sky my duvet

I dream of bringing my piano

To the Waterfall—

I want to accompany

The Cricket Chorus—

Does the  Mole Cricket ride  Moles


My Grand Piano has an


Rickety, a relic

— of my childhood,

 when there were just six channels on the telly and the Evening News was broadcast just once, when the only telephone was in my parents’ room, and it was a Big Deal to get a phone call.

Before I got my piano i practiced arpeggios


 Dad’s typewriter.

My hands are as peripheral  as my eyes are nearsighted.

I run through the Gardens at night, typing words into the air

It is May and the bluebells are fragrant

I type a poem-song onto a spider web

and spot them—

Brethren Crickets:


Bluebell bouquets

Their parasols.

By Leonora Rita V. Obed



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