It was the end of June, a hot and humid day,
I was out in the city, on a photographic jaunt,
My camera and I, just clicking away.
The weather turned dark, as the thunder clouds rolled in,
and I was caught in a downpour,
I had to find a place quick to get into,
To get out of the rain.
The first door that I came to… I quickly ducked in,
The Gallery owner, not too amused by my soaking-wet demeanor.
An elderly lady with way too much class,
Eyed me suspiciously... Me and my camera,
With way too much glass.
I asked if I could look around and maybe grab a few shots?
She replied with, “Don’t get anything wet! ”
Paintings adorned the walls, I was is a sea of artistic inspiration,
Lost in its immense affect on me.
There was so much to see, but I hadn’t seen nothing yet.
So I began to scan first one wall, then the next,
My camera knowing no boundaries, clicking off shot after shot.
I stumbled into a room of statuettes and figurines,
There were majestic cats, ready to pounce,
And eagles on soaring wing,
There were wolves heads, with piercing eyes,
And swans with heart shaped necks,
And song birds that longed to sing.
My camera was clicking away,
It was like magic. Yes, it was truly a magical day.
Then, my lens found her-
A penguin, made of white porcelain and crystalline glass,
Sitting alone on a pedestal, illuminated with a special light,
Shinning on her face, her heart so bright.
A bright red heart with a jagged crack-
And now, never getting love back.
The glass made up the rock of ice she was on,
and a single teardrop rolling down from her eye-
Frozen in place.
A teardrop frozen in time,
Never to fall off her face.
My camera made but one click,
Capturing her sadness in my heart forever.
A porcelain penguin,
A small figurine-
Was the most beautiful piece in the gallery,
That I’ve ever seen.
My warm heart couldn’t touch her,
Could not melt that tear away-
It was then, that I knew I had to have her,
Whatever price, I’d pay.
There was no price tag,
For she couldn’t be bought,
But I dug in my pockets, for all the money that I had,
And placed her carefully on the counter,
Hoping the gallery owner could be persuaded to part with her,
For I wanted her so bad.
The elderly lady raised an eyebrow, as I explained my obsession with the piece,
She nodded with understanding-
As a tear formed in her eye,
For it was Her heart that was broken,
It was Her lost love that had created the piece.
She said my money’s no good here,
That money couldn’t buy that kind of love.
And she wrapped it up in tissues, a silver box fitted like a glove,
She said to take care of her, along with just one last request-
That my image that I captured of her,
Be replaced upon the wall,
Where once a porcelain penguin sat-
With no hope of love finding her at all.
The rain had stopped, and sunshine had replaced the day,
I thanked that gallery lady, and told her I’d be back real soon,
To give her the photograph that I had captured, and captured me-
That rainy day in June.
(I wrote this for my friend, in hopes that she'll remember the best of what we had, not the worst -Kelly)
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Comments about this poem ('Porcelain Penguin' by Kelly Seale )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(22 March 1941 -)
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