This is a shortened, revised version, of a poem that I wrote one boring and sultry evening in my bedroom. I like to read it to people while they close their eyes and use their imagination in listening to the words and figuring out what I am describing. For me, it was an exercise in descriptive thought and writing.

CEILING FAN


Centered amid the ceiling, solidly stable, yet openly vulnerable, hang paddles of imitation oak. Straw patterned centers embedded convincingly belonging.
Gold florals attractively inset, highlight the brass hub from where paddles reach out, spreading arms over the patient white globe from whence the golden light sleeps, waiting to give birth.

Individual players, selfishly commanding their own attention within the chorus of intertwining team effort, highlight the importance of their season. Hot sticky days becoming sleepless nights in never-ending cycles while the alleviator hangs from the stark white field overhead, waiting to share strengths, which submissively tame stresses of heat, humidity, and darkness.

Two small chains showing years of wear and use, vertically waiting the moment when desperate need inspire the groping pull on them to begin the saving process.
Saving the puller from darkness, heat, stuffiness and suffocation; allowing simple movement to affect the comfort and air flow of many inanimate and living objects.