The real flower of the bougainvillea is usually outshone by its brilliantly colored leaves. Here the flower gets its due–center stage–while the flashy leaves retreat into the darkness.
https://ceenphotography.com/2016/04/20/flower-of-the-day-april-21-2016-bearded-iris/
Locks
Locked up in my bedchamber. More than I can bear.
The beauty of my countenance, the shimmer of my hair
do me no good for no prince charming comes to find me here.
I will go unmarried––for my whole life, I fear.
My father thinks he honors me. I am his special treasure.
He worries not about my fate. He thinks not of my pleasure.
I am but one more lovely thing he keeps for his collection––
admired for my golden locks, my flawless pale complexion.
I care not for beauty. I care not for my tresses.
I do not treasure jewels or slippers or my ornate dresses.
A husband and a family are all that I desire.
A simple life’s the sort of life that I most admire.
From my window I look out upon the broad King’s Highway.
All roads must converge here––every path and byway.
And so I see them passing: beggars, countrymen and princes.
Vendors selling mangos, apples, oranges and quinces.
My eye is caught by sunlight flashing from his sword
as he stoops to have a sip from a vendor’s gourd.
He pays her with a small coin and thanks her most politely,
then mounts his horse with one sure leap–graceful, sure and spritely
I see him passing often and his face is full of laughter,
calling out and gesturing to companions, fore and after.
One day I wave my scarf at him as he goes passing by
and every day thereafter, I know I’ve won his eye.
At first he bows politely–a gesture I don’t miss.
and after a few weeks of this, one day he blows a kiss.
I reach out and grab it and press it to my face.
He rears his horse and races off at a faster pace.
The next day he doesn’t come, although I wait and wait.
But finally, I see him turning towards my father’s gate.
In distress, I call out that he must not tarry here.
My father’s wrath must not be stirred. It is what I most fear.
He does not see me gesturing. He hears not my distress.
I rue the day I waved at him, although I must confess
I also thrilled to think that he had come in search of me.
I fantasized that he would be the one to set me free.
But my prince never entered, though he tarried long and late.
Until the full moon rose above, he waited at the gate.
Although it had not opened by the time the next sun rose,
the young man sat astride his horse with hoarfrost on his clothes.
‘Twas then that I began my moan and tears sprang from my eyes.
I tore my clothes, scratched at my face. I’d ruin my father’s prize!
My serving maids, sorely distressed, tried to stay my hand,
while my genteel companion sat with startled eyes and fanned!
When one maid put down the apple she’d begun to pare,
I grabbed the knife and severed one long lock of hair.
Lock after lock, I parted with this prison I had grown.
I’d see if father still wanted a daughter newly mown.
Then outside my chamber, I heard a deafening grate.
I flew back to the window. They were opening the gate!
At the same time, I heard a knock and my door opened wide.
I knew it was my father in the passageway outside.
I feared his consternation, his anger and his wrath,
and yet I chose to put myself squarely in his path.
In one hand I held half my locks, in the other were locks more.
All my other shorn-off glory, around me on the floor.
“I am not your possession,” I tell my father then.
I am no pretty pet that you can lock up in a pen.
You can have my beauty––” (Here I handed him my locks.)
“but you cannot seal me up in your private box.”
My father raised his hand, and I feared that he would strike me––
angered that he’d never again have a treasure like me––
but instead he circled his arm around my shoulder
and said, “This day, I have acquired a daughter who is bolder!
It was never me who kept you sealed up in this tower.
You always had it within you to unlock your own power.
You must know this unlocking is both metaphor and literal.
The freedom that you’ve won today, both actual and clitoral.”
And that is how this princess, once set upon a shelf,
learned that the price of freedom is to win it for one’s self.
By cutting off my own locks, I opened up the gate.
My reward––the clever prince wise enough to wait!
Helen Meikle sent along this song which she said had a similar theme to my poem. Can’t believe I’ve never heard it before…but I agree. Listen to it HERE
Cee asked us to post photos that displayed different principles she’s been teaching over the past many months. Let’s see if you can tell me which principles these photos display:
As usual, click on photos to enlarge. I keep writing this reminder for those new to blogging!!! Or, those as forgetful as I am. Ha.
Froggy Weather
Fog reaches out its fingers and reaches out its toes
to prod and follow everywhere the British nation goes.
Then when it gives up teasing them, sun does not come again.
Fog merely slips aside a bit to make room for the rain.
So button up your raincoat. Invest in rubber boots.
During rainy season, fog and rain are in cahoots
to confuse your direction and make your going tough
and dampen down your spirits if your wet clothes aren’t enough.
Pea soup in November moves in thick and tight––
not solving any hunger. Feeding no appetite.
And when rain comes to join it, they make a dismal pair––
soaking up your stockings and limping down your hair.
So if you live in London in Knightsbridge or Picadilly,
it isn’t very practical, in fact its downright silly
to go without galoshes or a GPS when walking
when rain commences soaking you and fog takes up its stalking.
If you’ve set your mind today to visit Scarborough Fair,
it will not be enough to wear some flowers in your hair.
You’d better wear a rain bonnet and tie it good and tight
So parsley sage and rosemary don’t share your soggy plight,
take a big umbrella to protect your provender
lest paper bags you carry prove too soggy and too tender
to serve the use they’ve earlier served in months less wet and boggy.
There’s no other solution when London life turns froggy!
You’ll mow down little old ladies and run into a rector
while wandering lost through rain and fog in an unknown sector.
So though you seek to sightsee or merely walk your Lab,
believe it when I say to you, it’s best to take a cab.
When my new husband and I moved from L.A. to the redwoods of northern California, a feral cat appeared from the forest and after a week or so of hide-and-go-seek games, deigned to move in with us. A month or so later, she had three kittens—like their mother, all grey Burmese with chartreuse eyes, but each with a differently-shaped tail. The mother’s was curved at the end with a dip to the right. One of the female kittens had a similar dip, but to the left. The other female had a zigzag tale. The sole male, Bearcat, was the only one with a perfect tale—unbent, long and expressive. He was also the biggest, the most talkative and the only one to survive for fifteen years—long enough to move with me to Mexico.
back-lofter
tail-wafter
gray-bearer
drape-tearer
ball-loser
lap-chooser
bunny-slayer
shoelace-player
sofa-climber
sleep-mimer
shadow-springer
dragonfly-bringer
lizard de-tailer
spider-nailer
basement-searcher
window-ledge percher
tree-dweller
mouse-smeller
dog-chaser
bug-caser
door crack-peeper
sunbeam-sleeper
woods-walker
squirrel-stalker
rail-balancer
prey-glancer
shadow-catcher
love-hatcher
body-spinner
heart-winner
NaPoWriMo prompt: Kennings were riddle-like metaphors use in Norse Sagas. Basically, they are ways of calling something not by its actual name, but by a sort of clever, off-kilter description — for example, the sea would be called the “whale road.” Today, I challenge you to think of a single thing or person (a house, your grandmother, etc), and then write a poem that consists of kenning-like descriptions of that thing or person.
Here is an earlier poem written to this same prompt:
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2014/04/13/napowrimo-day-13-wish-wagon/
Jake
First thing you think of when you wake
are his fingers scraping like a rake
over your shoulder–sure to make
your toes curl up and fingers quake.
You rise to bake his birthday cake
and choose to pack it up to take
it to him there out on the lake–
your fear of water faced for his sake.
The weight of oars. The sun’s cruel bake
revealing two sure truths as fake.
And oh the pain and oh the ache
of what he’s chosen to forsake.
The boat you row to shore and tether,
foretelling wind and stormy weather.
Love vanished like a plucked-out feather
when you saw your friend and love––together
The one-word WordPress prompt was “Fake.”
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fake/
How to Mend a Broken Heart
Pop a really big bowl of popcorn.
Don’t think of calories.
Just ignore the old maids in the bottom—
this is not a fortune-telling experience.
Lots of butter.
Locate chocolate.
If none is to be found,
there is likely a 7-11 within driving distance
no matter where you happen to be.
Get the biggest bar.
A bite of popcorn, then a bite of chocolate.
Locate an old Ma and Pa Kettle movie somewhere online and watch it.
Ma Kettle is you in ten years if your love affair had worked out.
Pa Kettle is who your lover would have turned into.
Find an old Sophia Loren movie online and watch it.
Sophia Loren is who you are now.
Don’t worry about the popcorn.
Sophia Loren wouldn’t.
Imagine Paul Newman eating popcorn
off your bare back.
Flip over.
Flash on making love to Pa Kettle.
Quickly flash back to Paul Newman
now eating popcorn off your bare clavicle.
Imagine your ex in a movie theater
watching Paul Newman make love to you
up there on the big screen.
Don’t worry about who your ex is with.
Well, maybe just one little peek.
Your ex is with Ma Kettle!
Too young to know who Ma and Pa Kettle are? Watch this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_PkDGwoleA
or this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PC1QxZ7htOQ
The prompt from NaPoWriMo was to write a “How To” poem. I appealed for more of a prompt from forgottenman, who suggested, “How to Mend a Broken Heart.” That happens to be something I am an expert at, so this is what transpired.
Click on photo to enlarge
I photographed these flowers at the lovely Chantli Mare Beach Hotel near La Manzanilla. I used to grow them in California and I believe they are pentas star flowers.
See Cee’s and other flowers here: https://ceenphotography.com/2016/04/18/flower-of-the-day-april-19-2016-dandelion-gone-to-seed/
Please go here: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/12/06/uncornered/ to discover what I’ve had to say on the topics of closets!
