(Click on any photo to enlarge all.)
For Cee’s Flower Challenge.
The prompt today is polish. Image taken from the internet.
jdbphoto
Ragtag Hattie
Though her clothes are old and ratty,
her cast-off hats tattered and gnatty,
and her aroma eau de catty,
still her style is somewhat natty.
She has a certain savoir faire,
a childlike, careless stylish air.
Silk scarves and clanking jewelry
devoid of runway foolery.
Diaphanous and parachutey,
silk nightgowns might do double duty
as ballgowns were she ever asked
to functions one arrives at masked
in Dior dresses or black tie.
In lieu of that, she’ll just get by
strolling the streets in finery
gained from her dumpster minery.
Onlookers may think her batty—
clothes so rumpled, hair so matty.
all of her gloriously tatty—
her ballet slippers so pitter-patty
scuffling through the city streets,
greeting everyone she meets.
She is a fixture in our town
with a certain wide renown.
Pointed out to visiting friends,
her unique presence somehow lends
a flavor to the streets she walks.
She does not mind the stares and gawks.
Until one day she is not there—
her birdlike plumage, strange and rare
flown to a runway far above–
a blown-off hat, a single glove
left on the stairway where she fell—
to become this legend that I tell.
The prompt today is natty.
Dressed to Kill
Ladies have loved a uniform
since writing was in cuniform.
They’ve flirted with each man they’ve met
with shoulders garbed in epaulet.
No telling what the reason may be
why every serviceman they see
with stripes and bars upon his chest
is the man they like the best.
A Scottish guardsman who’s well-built
may show his legs off in a kilt,
whereas an Arab man who’s urban
struts his stuff beneath a turban.
Cops on their beats and Maitre d’s
have all the ladies that they please
when they don the prescribed clothes
in which they are assigned to pose.
Some women even make a grab
for guys they see in olive drab.
Ushers in jackets and in gloves
have been known to find new loves
in their darkened theater aisles
as they exercise their wiles
escorting with a liveried arm
those special ladies they seek to charm.
German gents who seek attention,
it’s hardly necessary to mention,
when they’re wanting to be chosen,
don a pair of lederhosen.
And sailors find they rarely lose out
when they get their navy blues out.
It’s true a full-regalia’d guy
is sure to catch the feminine eye.
Be it a robe or regimental,
there’s simply something elemental
about a man who’s dressed to kill—
for women cannot get their fill
of a gentleman in monkey suit.
Unsuited men just can’t refute
that they suffer real regrets
that that man in epaulets
gets all the women that he gets!
The prompt today was “uniform.” (image of Barney Fife from internet.)
Seasonal fires in the surrounding hills form a smoky background to these fussily-trimmed trees.
Tried to get this posted with my earlier submission for this prompt, but it took too long to load and I had to leave as my friend came by to pick me up for a trip to Guadalajara. I’ll try again as this is an amazing shot of a feeding frenzy of birds in La Manzanilla, taken last year. Here goes for another try:
Here is my original posting for the “Anything that Flies” prompt:
And here is Cee’s prompt page if you’d like to see other people’s postings for the prompt or to post your own:
https://ceenphotography.com/2017/06/01/cees-black-white-photo-challenge-anything-that-flies/
Photos may be enlarged by clicking on any photo.
Now, if you want to see birds in motion during a feeding frenzy in La Manzanilla, look here: https://youtu.be/zX56T3zK_3g
For Cee’s challenge: https://ceenphotography.com/2017/06/01/cees-black-white-photo-challenge-anything-that-flies/
I Hear the Distant Music
The midnight bells toll languidly—their sequence slightly varied
to tell the stories of the hours—or those soon to be buried.
Behind them swells the music of a local band.
On the platform in the plaza, for hours more they’ll stand
pumping out their music to the crowds who gather there.
After their days of heavy labor, these hours are without care.
The oom pah pah of distant music stirs my curtains like the wind—
the notes, first stiffly marching, change their minds to dip and bend.
The banda tunes a bit off-key, loud in their origin,
by the time they lift to me are strained out soft and thin.
Living miles above the town, I’m spared soreness of ears
as from assonant cacophony, the music shifts its gears.
What I hear is joyfulness far into the night.
The music meant to call to action releases its bite
and becomes a happy background as I slip into dreams.
Others have not given up on the day it seems.
Behind my lids I see them–lovers in their clenches,
grandmothers slowly nodding as they watch them from the benches.
It may be that daylight hours are for labor and for strife,
but far into the the morning hours, the village lives its life
in the night-shadowed plaza, far below where I
shift upon my pillow, content to simply lie
listening to the village—all the stories that it tells.
The laughter and the music and the tolling of the bells.
(In Mexico, church bells are a sort of village clock. They toll the hour, half-hour and quarter-hour, but also announce church services and deaths.)
Today’s word was “distant.”
Why is this flower called a “copa de oro” even when it is purple instead of gold? Perhaps because of that deep heart that glows like a burning cauldron of gold at its center. These vines have grown to cover my jade plant and my studio. They seem in the one photo to be growing higher than the massive palms. Perhaps they are seeking to grow up to the sun that they imitate at their heart of hearts.
(Click on any flower to enlarge all and see their hearts of gold.)
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 