Let’s get together to workshop our souls,
then toss our past regrets back in their bowls.
Though life’s a lottery, full of calamity,
we are the agents of all of its amity.
Choices we make determine our ends.
Fate’s only responsible for its trick bends.
You bring the biscuits and I’ll provide wine.
We’ll discuss life as we sip and we dine.
No better remedy for life’s aversions
than hors d’oeuvres and drinks to provide our diversions.
For Cee’s FOTD
“You are invited to a party at our house, Saturday at 7.
Please bring a dish to share and what you want to drink.”
What the F—?
If I’m to bring a dish to share and also what I drink,
just who’s throwing the party? It sounds like me, I think.
If I’m going to cook a dish and also buy the wine,
I think I’ll just stay home instead, where all of it is mine!
The purpose for a party is for entertaining friends—
Not the other way around. This said, my poem ends!
Plum Pit, Apple Core
Never saw an apple tree, never saw a plum
that I didn’t want to reach out and get me some.
Bite into the fleshy fruit. Chew around the pit.
Spit it out into my hand to get rid of it.
Dig a hole to bury it. Smooth it with my heel
to grow another fruit tree for a future meal.
Such a simple motion in a world grown gross—
most folks isolated, fearfully morose
about nature’s rebellion against humankind.
Reaching deep within her and taking what we find
without giving back again—everybody keen
on scraping out her riches with some grand machine.
For manifold acts of mankind, dangerous and mean,
nature has not found an adequate vaccine.
But, by giving back again, we signify devotion
to start to rectify our sins with a simple motion.
Let’s help her out by simply remaining aware
that each and every one of us needs to start to care.
By every single action, let’s demonstrate our wills
to rectify our heedlessness, atone for all our ills.
For everything that we take out, putting something back.
To therein change our dangerous course and take another tack.
Just a simple gesture, signifying more.
Building back our world pit after pit, core after core.
We talk about solutions, never coming close—
spewing words not actions, maddeningly verbose.
But if every person just took their life in hand,
polluting less, enriching their surrounding land,
perhaps we’d shift the balance, tree by tree by tree,
restoring our world to what it’s meant to be.
I hear church bells in the distance.
Yesterday I thought I would be there,
but here I am, the runaway bride,
standing by the side of the road
with the suitcase I’d packed so carefully for my honeymoon.
I try to imagine what Richard is doing right now.
What he might be thinking.
Is my mother regretting the money she spent on my gown?
Is my father wondering about the reception—
whether they will just carry on
since he will have to pay for the hundred meals
whether they are eaten or not?
Will my sister blame me forever
for the dress I’ve made her wear with no payoff?
Who will announce
to the assembled guests
that the bride will not be in attendance?
A truck slows. In the back are cages of chickens
and one muddy pig.
The old farmer asks where I am going.
“Anywhere you’re going,” I announce,
and hitch up my skirts,
flip my bridal veil over my shoulder
and climb up into the pickup.
As we take off to wherever,
I notice that my veil has come off my shoulder.
Through the side rear vision mirror, I can see it
flapping cheerily in the wind
as we drive past the church,
and I see the groom, mouth agape.
I do not wave good-bye.
Narrative Poem for dVerse Poets. Photo by Dylan Nolte on Unsplash, used with permission.