Product Listing on a Grecian Urn (After Keats)

 AUTHENTIC GREEK URN VINTAGE GRECIAN RETRO GENUINE ANTIQUE FREE POSTAGE

            From Sylvia & Co. Retro Furnishings, Moorgate

Made in attic shape, this antique Grecian urn is the perfect addition to your home décor – be it in the bedroom, in the pride of your living room or between the plants in your conservatory. Originally made in Ancient Greece, the urn sports many leaf-fringed legends sure to interest the most ardent historian. See :

·       the youthful piper play his unheard melodies to the spirit

·       the fair lovers lean in forever to kiss, ever out of reach

·       happy boughs never to bid Spring adieu

·       the priest lead the silken heifer to his altar

With a lifetime warranty, this urn is an investment not only in your home but for generations to come, its marble men and maidens a friend to humanity across time. This is your chance to own a one-of-a-kind piece of ancient history, so don’t delay!

Product specs :

·       H x W x D : 60 x 30 x 20cm

·       Clay pottery with a gold finish

·       Adorned with Sylvan legends

·       Weight 1kg (approx.)

·       Light and portable urn

·       Discovered by genuine Roman soldiers

·       Vintage original – low carbon footprint

·       Perfect Panathenaic gift

·       Would work great as a plant pot

·       Not a toy – not suitable for children under 5

·       Collectors’ item – not on the high street

·       All inscriptions in Greek – no English varieties

·       Keep away from extreme heat and cold

·       Keep out of direct sunlight

·       Not dishwasher or microwave safe

·       Lifetime warranty

·    “Beauty is truth, truth beauty” – our guarantee

The Spinning Man

The Spinning Man

A life in darkness
flat on my back
flat on my face
the view never changes.

The hand cuts through the dark,
dragging light in its wake,
blinding me.
The hand sifts through my box,
past building blocks and plastic cars,
and plucks me

out of darkness and into light.
Sometimes everything hangs off the ceiling.
Sometimes everything is stuck to the ground.
Always new faces in the crowd.

Held up on one end, I look around.
Fleeting fragments of the past stick out
before my four-walled world starts to blur.

I spin. Pillow forts turn to white streaks.
I spin. Bookshelves turn to a brown square.
I spin. My box stains the picture purple.
I spin.
I have no choice.

The streaks of light melt back into shape.
I stagger on the spot until I fall on my face.
The crowd applauds.
Footsteps trail away and I’m left to lie,
surveying the world from the corner of my eye.

A breeze may turn me over,
the dust may layer on thick,
but always the hand comes back,
stands me up on one end,

I spin.

The Birth of the Rose

The Birth of the Rose

Across the green Elysian Fields,
the dead and deathless dance.
They bask in the eternal light,
snared in harmonic trance.

The gentle nymphs dance in the dark,
the forest shade their shield.
Beyond Apollo’s golden gaze,
they yearn to join the Field.

They see their sister break away,
she dances in the sun.
They see their sister stumble down,
her gleaming light grows dun.

Kind Chloris found her lifeless child,
and cradled her and called,
for Gods of Wine, of Love and Wind,
to breathe life in the falled.

“Rise now our child,” they spake. And lo,
sprang up their toil of hours.
No more the verdant nymph that fell,
but Rose – Queen of Flowers.

Depression

Catherine Broxton

Brain bloated with bile;
Sadness seeps out;
Trickles down the veins;
Weighs down the heart;

Every breath becomes agony;
Every thought becomes misery;
Every emotion becomes dull;
Every hope becomes fear;

Laughter slices the soul;
Truth bounces off the ears;
Lies cling and coil to the heart;
All ways ahead lie in the dark;

And nothing will change.

Breathe

  Breathe   

Catherine Broxton

Cold air rushes in 

Flows through the lungs to the heart 

Warm air trickles out

Winter

Winter

Catherine Broxton

Heat melts into the cold 

Ice crawls up the rusty panes 

Remnants of a world

Second

 Second

Catherine Broxton

A moment in time 

Frozen in perfect amber 

Endless, then complete

Eternal Storm

 Eternal Storm  

Catherine Broxton

 

...time stops as harsh white light falls again

those silver streaks, those forks of flame fly

coursing to cloudy canvas' end

and cease, for a breath, the thunder's drums.

Below the sky, singed with errant spears

sit oaks and pines and birches that sigh

as do the umbrellas floating near

for they all have hid from Zeus' gaze.

The moment passes, the white light fades

the trees scramble for a place to hide.

Banners of Nature cast a strong shade

as the drums of thunder build, until...

    Catherine Broxton is a writer of things based in the U.K. With poems, comics and articles in her wheelhouse, she's primed and ready to take at least one literary industry by storm, if only her cat would give her a minute.

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