(You don’t dare enlarge these, do you? If you do have the courage of your convictions and wonderful resistance to temptation, enlarge all photos my clicking on any one.)
I breakfast on oatmeal and vile green tea. Oats aids in digestion, the tea makes me pee and helps me to swallow the Omega 3 that lowers blood pressure and lubes up my knee. I do pool aerobics when the water’s not cold. I open my mind so it doesn’t get old. I don’t shoot up drugs or overdo liquor. I try to eat food that is good for my ticker.
Broccoli, whole grains, jamaica, white beans to lower my blood pressure by other means than those dreaded pills that make me feel old by sapping my energy, dulling my bold. I can give up the salt and give up the nookie, but please don’t deprive me of my evening cookie or maybe a dozen or two, more or less. In my frenzy, I sometimes lose count, I confess.
If I’m going to have meat, a potato’s a must. Protein without carbs is simply unjust. Dark chocolate’s allowed, but I fear just a bit, and when it comes to chocolate, I never can quit. Who wants to commit to a life with no sin? No pasta, no cookies, no chocolate, no gin? I try to be good but I’m still not the best, for I cannot commit to a diet with no zest.
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.
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.)
Even when she’s in the buff, he feels she’s not revealed enough. He wants to know her heart and soul— to know her entire being, his goal. But, alas, she cannot do it. If she does, she knows she’ll rue it. Much as she loves a certain sir, there is a certain part of her that must remain a mystery. For in this maiden’s history are other suitors it behooved to have her secrets all removed. But when she revealed it all, one by one, they did not call. And thus she learned a maiden’s rule: Men are fickle. Men are cruel. Lest you be put up on a shelf, keep parts of you safe in your self. To keep him interested in your stuff, Most of you is just enough.
Suspended between her life and her death, she measures the intervals from breath to breath, noting the bed cover’s sinking and lift, wondering when life will set her adrift.
After a lifetime of effortless health, she is surprised by the contrasting stealth and the strength of the grip of what waits at her ending, no matter what care friends may take in her tending.
As the sands of her life escape through her fingers, she treasures each grain that stubbornly lingers. She cannot give up. She has to hold on until the last grain is fallen and gone.
All of those pleasures that cling to her past are pleasures now gone. Such pleasures don’t last. Her life like a book, pages grown stiff with age— it grows harder and harder to turn the next page.
Her life has turned gritty––a pain and a pleasure. Each grain that remains both a curse and a treasure. Afraid to give up what she has for what’s next, she can’t see the ending. She can’t read the text.
There is no escape and there isn’t a cure, and though every day goes by in a blur, yet these last scraps of life still act as a lure not to give up on life. To simply endure.
The prompt today is curiously similar to yesterday’s. It is “adrift.”
Although I’d love to pause and take the time
to create an adequate rhyme,
Alas, I must get on the road
to drive back to my own abode.
The piles surround me. I must go.
But, alas, I’m moving slow.
With a car to finish loading,
I’ve developed a sense of foreboding.
When I’m Skyped by my best friend,
I know my luck is at an end.
Yes, my planning most precise
would have turned out very nice
except for one fact I forgot.
Now in a time-crunch I am caught.
The cause of all my frantic ravings?
Forgot to switch to Daylight Savings!
It’s true. Mexico changes at a different time than the rest of North America. Although I thought I’d be checking out precisely at 11 a.m., it seems that the time will be noon. But, the fridge is cleaned, floor swept, Morrie precautions removed, except for his long lead that has rusted shut around the post. Oh woe. Bye for now. I’m off to the road.
The April breeze comes in a wave, loosening words I’d like to save. I’m afraid if I use them today, I’ll simply throw the words away. I’ve been keeping them around for when I’m feeling more profound, but errant winds have tossed them so I feel I have to let them go. Here they are, all madly sprawled across a page they should have crawled ornate and planned, all neatly sown. Instead, they’re scattered where they’ve been blown.
The prompt today, which was so late that I didn’t receive it until just now at 5:37 P.M., was ironically, “later.” I leave tomorrow so got up at 5 A.M. to pack, went to writer’s group at 10:30 at which point they still hadn’t published a prompt word, then had two appointments in the afternoon and hurried home to do more packing. I’ll get the prompt done sooner or “later.” Is this an April Fool’s joke, WordPress?
I’m also using this as my first day’s NaPoWriMo poem. Been packing and loading car all day, Will be driving all day tomorrow. Once I’m home, I’ll do better.