Category Archives: wedding poems

Realistic Wedding Vows, Aug 5, 2018

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Photo by Alan Steed

 

Realistic Wedding Vows

I will abide your ego if you will abide mine—
If you ignore my awkward habits, I can exist with thine.
I’ll overlook socks on the floor or an abandoned shoe
if you promise not to mention an extra line or two
you might detect in years to come, scribed onto the place
where I hope you’ll still plant kisses on my aging face.

I won’t make you eat okra if you won’t bring home fish
expecting me to transform them into a tasty dish.
I’ll try to love your mother if you’ll put up with mine.
Poker evenings with your friends that stretch ’til dawn are fine
so long as you won’t rush on through from front door to the fridge
when I have my friends over for a game of bridge.

Stop and talk awhile. Get to know their names.
The sexes aren’t so different. We just play different games.
Our love is a given, so it requires no vow.
The things that I promise thee, in public, here and now
are fidelity and an effort to be the easiest me
that, given what your vows are, it’s possible to be.

Photo by Alan Steed

Hard to believe these photos were taken 31 years ago. Both the generous friend who took them for us as a surprise and the groom are now departed, but not the memories. We actually did not write our vows back then, even though we were both writers. I wonder why? I think it was because I was trying to coordinate publicity for a show being shot in Tahiti, planning a wedding and acting as the go-between for three house closings as we sold each of ours and bought a new house in northern California. The wedding was simple, but wonderful with surprise guests showing up from every stage of my life: childhood, college, Australia, old students from Wyoming, poet friends, friends from work, all my family from three different states, Bob’s kids and friends and even one lady I’d never met who flew in from Wyoming because she thought it sounded like fun. Ha. I’d sent out the invitations as an announcement, but everyone came. Guess they had decided this was never going to happen and they had to see the evidence for themselves. The photos are used as an illustration only and were an afterthought. Bob wasn’t a fisherman. I hadn’t played bridge since college!

The prompts: abide, ego, awkward, detect. Below are the links.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/08/05/rdp66-abide/

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/08/05/fowc-with-fandango-ego/

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/08/05/awkward/

https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/08/05/daily-addictions-2018-week-31/ (Detect)

Beauty and the Beast

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Beauty and the Beast

“You Are Well Come” the banner read,
fluttering high over head.
From tree to tree it had been hung
with vibrant ribbons, securely strung.

Feasting tables were well laid
with mead and beer and lemonade.
The wedding cake stood tall bedecked,
sugar-spun and flower-flecked.

Roast joint of flesh and wheels of cheese
were laid, the wedding guests to please.
The wedding aisle strewn with flowers,
overhead the wedding bowers.

Organ music, strong and steady,
everything was poised and ready.
Heads were turned to footsteps heard
upon the pathway. Not one word

was uttered as the maiden entered.
Her pace was slow, her steps well-centered.
An arrow shot straight down the aisle,
veiled in silk and gowned in lisle.

The bridegroom marked her progress toward
the priest, the ring, the wedding gourd.
She took his hand, their vows were coined,
they sipped the gourd and thus were joined.

That night beauty would grace the bed
of the suitor she had wed.
The ending that you might foresee,
however, is not what will be.

Our plots in life have dips and bendings.
The same starts have different endings.
She wed the prince who slewed the beast
that now comprised the wedding feast!

 

The above poem was written to fulfill these three prompts:

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/07/19/fowc-with-fandango-steady/
https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/07/19/vibrant-july-19-2018/
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/07/19/rdp-49-welcome/

After the Ceremony

After marriage, even after the mundane invades our life, hopefully, some of the magic remains.

After the Ceremony

Oh my dear,
caught in this star-studded cowboy boot world,
I love you more than an Oreo cookie,
more than bubble gum
or a dill pickle.
You are a full gas tank and my shoelaces.
You are both what keeps me going
and what I am reaching out for—
my goal and trophy rolled into one.
You are my ironing board and my blender—
what churns me up and straightens me out.
Everything in the world is caught up in you.

It is flowering, our ordinary world.
Zephyrus peanut butter
and turgid corned beef hash
are surrounded by rosebuds,
soaring heavenward in sartorial bliss.
The sewing machine is holy
and our Dodge truck dreamlike.
The fanciful and practical
are shuffled in our dream world
like cards at a poker table.
A washcloth and a comb soar heavenward.
Birdsong becomes a phonograph needle,
caught in its groove.
Verdant is the garden hose–
pulsating with a new vibrancy.

If I am a tax form, you are my pencil.
I am diaphanous in my kitchen apron,
a fairy in blue jeans.
I could sing an ode to your toothbrush.
If I took a measuring stick to our love,
the world’s breath would be bated,
waiting for the result.
Birdsong would issue from the teakettle
to chorus the announcement.
For oh, my love, our passion is a hammer.
A scythe that slices through the problems of the world:
the shopping lists and the crabgrass.

Love vaporizes our petty problems––
the broken dishwasher
and the broken fingernail––
I am thy bride, thy fairy princess.
Your pencil sharpener.
The trimmer of your wick,
the cooker of your sausage.

My dear, I am turgid in thy love.
You are what wrenches my heart
and nails shut the door
of every misgiving I might have had.
You are mustard to my sauerkraut,
pastrami to my rye.
Love in a Ziplock bag might seem less fairylike,
blander than white bread
and more Sunday School than magical;
but, you are my big zucchini,
my Dove bar and my Orange Crush,
and I am forever thy camellia and thy rose.

Remember me under lindens,
my footsteps filled with magnolia petals
and my cook pot full of stardust.
Heaven resides in our walkup flat, my dear,
and I pulsate every day
with the memory of that honeymoon
which was only our penultimate dream—
leading up to the chock-a-block,
stuffed turkey with all the trimmings,
overflowing Christmas stocking,
burst balloon filled with confetti,
blissful rest of that conjoined life
that with every morning alarm clock
will spill over us again
like a freshly split piñata.

This is a rewrite of a poem first written five years ago. The prompt word today was ceremony.

The Cloud

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The Cloud

The groom’s mother might be charismatic,
lovely, clever and dramatic,
but when she entered any room,
she was preceded by her perfume.

So her presence here was problematic—
in scope, approaching the traumatic—
for we had to institute some bans
to include her in our wedding plans.

For reasons we deemed bioclimatic,
(and her excesses aromatic)
when it came to finding her a seat,
we found it to be quite a feat.

For it’s hard to remain diplomatic
when the bride is prone to be asthmatic.
With no other possible schematic,
We had to seat her in the attic.

The prompt word today is “Aromatic.”