Eight years ago I wrote this poem for my birthday. I hate acknowledging such advancement of age, but one must do what one must do to survive. So I must write and whisper “sixty eight.”
Claudia Edgar Allan Anderson
Once upon a weeknight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over a many quaint and curious volume of forgotten recorded TV shows
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my patio door.
‘Tis my dogs I muttered, tapping at my patio door.
Only this and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December
And each separate dust bunny made a mess upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow – vainly I had thought to borrow
A DVD from my son’s room, but sorrow – sorry he had misplaced Avatar
Just a DVD and nothing more.
Presently my channel surfing grew boring, hesitating then no longer
Dickens and Rennie dogs, said I, truly your forgiveness I implore
But the fact was I was napping, and so gently you came rapping.
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my patio door.
That I scarcely heard you. Here I slide open the door
Snow piled there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing
The dogs so quietly sleeping, sleeping down the bathroom hall
But the silence was now broken, and the dogs were gently snoring
And the only word there spoken was the whispered words ‘sixty oh.’
Merely this and nothing more.
Open here I flung the patio shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In stepped a stately unicorn of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least chuckle made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she;
But with the air of a know-it-all, perched above my breakfront door
Perched upon the dusty wood just atop my breakfront door
Laid down, and smiled, nothing more.
By the silly and irreverent decorum of the smirk that she wore
Though thy horn be sparkly and spirally, thou, I said, art sure no dog.
Smiling and bouncy ancient unicorn wandering from the snow piles
Tell me what thy lady’s name is on the night of the Walking Dead finale!
Quoth the unicorn, ‘sixty, oh!’
The unicorn still beguiling, all my weary bones into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a foot stool in front of unicorn and breakfront and door;
Then upon the polyester sinking, I betook to linking
Fancy unto fancy, remembering all my years of glorious tales
What this full-figured, laughing, ditzy unicorn
Meant in singing ‘sixty, oh!’
Prophet! said I, thing of beauty – prophet still, if real or fancy –
Whether astral traveling or whether sent by Gandalf
Are you telling me age has no meaning?
Quoth the unicorn, ‘sixty, oh!’
And the unicorn, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the dusty wood just atop my breakfront door;
And her eyes have all the seeming of a family whose love is beaming
And the ceiling lamp o’er her streaming throws her shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that now is dancing on the floor
Now is singing ‘sixty, oh!’
11 thoughts on “The Birthday Raven Unicorn”
Thank you Thank you!!
At least in the blogging world — it the writing world it seems like forever!
Beautyful poem ! And Happy Birthday !!!
Haha well even though it’s tought to admit it’s also so cool that you’ve been writing and stuck with it fpr over eight years 😉
Giggled when reading this one.
Thank you so much!
You are magic. Thank you!
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