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THE PATRÓN, Merit ~ Odin 12 |
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Jul 25 08, 11:49
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Ornate Oracle
Group: Praetorian
Posts: 9,313
Joined: 27-August 04
From: Bariloche, Argentine Patagonia
Member No.: 78
Real Name: Sylvia Evelyn Maclagan
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:David Ting
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THE PATRÓN
Indigo evening at the estancia’s homestead: undulating shadows slink into alcoves, like black cats a-waiting the witching hour. Wives gossip round the whispering well in the pink-tiled patio; scent of magnolia from bygone romances softens raw realities.
Feigning flippancy, the Patrón remarks that some of his sheepdogs are wolfish. They’re cast at night in the Río Negro… “With stones slung around their necks”. Lips moving suavely, pride leaps from his eyes to challenge stilled sounds, hushed songbirds.
Hollow thoughts… I imagine a fingernail moon indifferently slicing the Austral night’s peace; feral forms bound in sackcloth shrouds, sinking under star-filled waters…muffled howls - perhaps a hound’s prayer for quick release. I shiver, reach for my shawl from an iron rack.
Servants keep deferential silence; a couple of farmhands laugh out loud, flattering the boss. They’d been there… The Señora glides through a green door, like a phantom renouncing restive crowds. Her random gaze probes powers unseen.
In dying light, I stride on ochre leaves in the outsize, imported park. Bands of parakeets shatter the violet hour with derisive screeches, but fail to trouble my soul. Wondrous birds whose names nobody taught me seek perches under menacing dark.
Tucked tight between colonial bedposts, I stare with marble eyes at rusty rafters. Canine paws do macabre frolics on rails, before being gulped into density of night. In dreams, I dance with daunting specters. Men's words pierce my heart like nails.
The atonement of dawn brings slumber and I do not hear the cock crow.
By Psyche
Patrón = boss, only out in the country (not 'patron'). Señora = The boss's wife, mistress of the farmstead.
Copyright: Sylvia Grosso, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2008.
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Mis temas favoritos The Lord replied, my precious, precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.
"There is no life higher than the grasstops Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind Pours by like destiny, bending Everything in one direction."
Sylvia Plath, Crossing the Water, Wuthering Heights. Nominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here!MM Award Winner
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