Impromptu Gallery
This tennis fact you might observe
when a certain lady goes to serve:
each man who passes tends to swerve
to watch neither her skill nor verve,
but her body’s line and curve––
(each one a visual hors d’oeuvre.)
They keep their thoughts well in reserve,
for no observer has the nerve
to risk the censure he might deserve
in revealing himself as a perv.
And thus can Mel and Chuck and Irv
their conjugal harmonies conserve.
The WordPress Daily Prompt is observe.
Cruel Question
It bothers me, I must confess.
What happens to a wedding dress
after it’s had its opening day?
Is it simply packed away?
If so, you’d think once time has passed
they’d finally reappear at last
in church bazaar or resale store
or other places where things of yore
emerge from attic, basement, closet
or other area of deposit.
(In whatever dark place they’ve all lain,
thinking they’ll be used again.)
There should be rooms filled with selections
of these nuptial confections.
Warehouses stuffed full of them,
varied in neckline, cut and hem.
Why do we not see huge barrages
of wedding gowns sold from garages
along with strollers and kiddie toys
cast off by grown up girls and boys?
Surely every aging bride
has a wedding dress inside
a trunk or closet—way up high.
What happens when their wearers die?
Garments of satin or nylon net—
what could be the etiquette
that guides a family in such matters?
If the gown is not in tatters
and worn away by age and mold,
surely it would be resold.
If so, where are the warehouses
where gowns bereft of brides and spouses
lie stockpiled awaiting chances
for other wedding vows and dances?
Where is the wedding gown museum
where we might journey to go to see ’em?
I’ll now chance being thought abrupt,
unsentimental, cold, corrupt
by saying what I have to say.
Do families throw these gowns away?
Buried under hills of trash
is there a wedding veil or sash?
Satin bodices and trains
diminished by decades of rains?
Do gowns once virginally snowy,
and spectacularly showy
now lie buried like their dreams,
slowly decaying at the seams?
These images, you might guess,
seem calculated to depress.
Who wants these pictures in her head
as her wedding vows are said?
This poem is meant for crones like me,
bent of back and stiff of knee,
who’ve run out of memories to ponder
and so must journey over yonder
to the macabre side of pondering
for their mental wandering.
That said, past brides, will you confess
what happened to your wedding dress?
The prompt today is abrupt.
Click on first photo and then arrows to see enlarged photos with captions.
The men were here for the past two days sanding, chipping and scraping all the weather coating off the huge dome that forms the roof for my bedroom which essentially means there is just one layer of bricks with a thin layer of cement between me and the weather. So, of course, what happened tonight? The rainy season descended a month ahead of schedule! Pounding rain, thunder and lightning. So far I don’t see any drips in the bedroom, but the living room is another matter. Water is dripping down from the cracked skylight. Thus, a major rearranging of furniture and placement of beach towels and bowls to catch the water. The rest of the roof is scheduled for the same treatment. Must check the weather.. Oh oh.. electricity just went off!!!!
Annie is bored with it all and is yowling for me to come to bed.
Who brought the rain? Of course, I did!!!!
Same bouquet, different angle! Fresh, fresh.
For Cee’s Flower of the Day. See her spring lilacs HERE.
Past Prime
She stamps her little foot down. A tantrum, I would guess.
She will not put these panties on. She will not wear this dress.
She doesn’t want to brush her teeth. Tangles swathe her head.
She doesn’t want her breakfast. She doesn’t want her bed.
Her grandma shuts the door on her. She’ll wait until she’s grown.
She used up all her patience on kids who were her own!!!
With tongue in cheek, I’d like to dedicate this blog to Karen over at her Momshieb blog. You might want to read her link as well! She’s crazy about her grandkids but even grandmas have their limits. The WordPress prompt word today is tantrum.
Near
My father went from obscurity to a sort of small renown.
He worked hard as a rancher and the mayor of our town.
He met my mother at a dance in her sister’s borrowed gown–
both of them lonely visitors to a faraway strange town.
I’ve thought about it often since we laid him down.
Why didn’t I ask more questions? Why didn’t I write it down?
Many a calf he helped to birth and many a field he’s mown.
Avoided his mother if he could–long-suffering aged crone.
Not many highways traveled,nor many airwaves flown.
He died in his angry daughter’s arms–the two of them alone.
I’ve thought of it often till regrets have turned into a drone.
His eyes were always looking further over yon.
Over a ripening field of wheat or over a fresh-mowed lawn.
Working, often, until dark and up again at dawn.
A man of camaraderie and wit and brains and brawn.
He liked to tell a story and sing a rousing tune.
Stand on the porch at midnight to piss under the moon.
He gave me a turquoise ring, a baby rabbit and a coon.
Now that he’s very gone away. Now that I’m very grown,
I know my flesh is of his flesh. My bone is of his bone.
And I wish that I’d asked more questions. That we’d both been less alone.
The form of this poem is one consisting of six stanzas, the first with 6 lines and each thereafter one less line. Each line in each stanza rhymes with all the other lines in that stanza and each stanza’s rhyme is a near rhyme to the last. The name of this form is Sylvestrian Near Rhyme and since “Near” describes both the theme and form of my poem, it is also the name of the poem. And yes, I did make up the form! I’d love it if poets given to rhyming and meter would attempt the form and send me the results as comments or a link to this blog.
For dVerse Poets Pub
Mums and friends.
