“Half a Heart” detail of mixed media wall sculpture by jdb (Wood, moss, shells and assorted dried beach scrub.)
Half a Love Story
Lately, when it comes to kissing
something seems to have gone missing;
for if the kissing rules are heeded,
it’s clear two pairs of lips are needed.
I have the half that’s labeled “me.”
I only lack the one called “he.”
So when it comes to birds and bees,
I must rely on memories!
The one-word prompt today was “Incomplete.”
Red Platform Heels
When I saw them in the store,
one half classy and one half whore,
the Crocs I had on seemed a bore.
Those heels were girlie, cut low, red.
I knew those heels would knock men dead.
As I left the store in them,
I was feeling oh so femme
until one shoe caught on my hem.
‘Twas then that I went tumbling down,
wrenched my ankle and tore my gown.
This fall was just a quirk, I thought,
with no regrets for what I’d bought,
for I was feeling oh so hot
that men would surely all be gawking.
I’d be more careful with my walking.
In Mexico, young girls or crones
go tripping over cobblestones
with no risk to their ankle bones.
Moving with sure-footed grace,
they never fall upon their face.
They chat as they cross streets together
even in inclement weather––
Their three inch heels of strapped-on leather
negotiate each slippery rock,
barely noticing where they walk.
So I got up from the floor
and sauntered once more towards the door
onto the street outside the store.
Where, once I got into the swing
I knew those shoes were just the thing.
My car was parked one block away;
but it was such a lovely day,
I thought that I would just sashay
up to the plaza for lunch and booze––
a trial run for my new shoes!
I belted up my dress a bit
so I would not trip over it.
Once more I felt sexy and fit
as I accomplished no small feat
negotiating each walk and street.
I must admit that I felt hobbled
as I walked over roadways cobbled.
Perhaps I grimaced, winced and wobbled.
But at the time, I was enthused––
thinking only of my new shoes.
When I reached the plaza and I walked by
a table of men, I felt each eye
peruse my legs from toe to thigh.
I knew that those new shoes were why
I held the gaze of every guy.
Maneuvering towards an empty table,
I walked as well as I was able,
but overlooked just one small cable
as I glanced over for their reaction.
That’s how I ended up in traction!
Legacy
The thoughts and looks and talents of others of my kind
are written on my body and written on my mind.
My genetic family, departed from this earth,
exists in my coloring, expression, voice and girth.
I’m glad I got mom’s optimism and her rhyming wit,
but her success with pastry? I have none of it.
I cannot bake a cherry pie. Light pastry is a riddle.
The few cakes that I ever baked were soggy in the middle.
Why couldn’t I inherit my mother’s slender legs
instead of my Dutch aunties’ solid ample pegs?
For women on my dad’s side were noted for their girth
as well as for the many years they spent upon this earth.
Thin skin that picks up bruises from each ungentle touch?
I’ve inherited it all–thank you very much!
My mother’s taste for chocolate, my uncle’s taste for gin––
both sides of my family I carry safe within.
My grandmother’s hands that always needed to be busy,
my Aunt Stella’s tendency to wind up in a tizzy.
“Blahsy blah!” she would exclaim, and flop her arms and walk
in tight little circles. I couldn’t help but gawk.
But sometimes I find myself getting flustered, too,
my mind stomping in circles as I figure what to do.
My upper arms look more like hers, my stomach like my mother’s,
although I’d rather have Aunt Betty’s if I had my druthers.
I could go on for stanzas, listing each thing that I’d rather,
but my recital has already turned into mere blather.
So I’ll just say a thank you to those who came before.
For in spite of all your ills, I have you at my core.
Somehow the parts you left in me, although they aren’t all pretty,
are very rarely mean or dumb or dense or dull or petty.
You left me curiosity that fills out all my days––
as well as that Dutch work ethic that doesn’t let me laze.
Dad and Mom, I thank you both for your good sense of humor
and for your facility at blending fact and rumor
into stories that you then simply had to tell.
And thank you for instilling the need to tell them well.
Slight exaggerations are expected, I have learned––
one vital ingredient of stories finely turned.
And though each story must be told starting at its top,
the secret lies in simply––knowing when to stop.
If you haven’t had enough, HERE is another piece I wrote to a similar prompt.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/legacy/
“The World Swings Towards its Opposite”
Often we’re made by what we lack.
White stands out better against black.
A child’s hand against your hand
often helps you understand
how prepared the human zoo
is to go on without you.
The world keeps balancing its act,
although we often rue the fact.
A child is born? Another must
make room by turning back to dust.
And every time we try to change this,
nature steps in to rearrange us.
Pestilence, earthquake and flood
offset new birth by spilling blood.
Ebola, aids, dengue, the flu
are, alas, only a few
of nature’s horrors that balance joys.
Cold and hot and girls and boys,
feast and famine, rain and shine,
mountain, valley, fresh water, brine––
contrast is what defines our world.
Every “knit one” must be pearled.
The truth in this election year
is one that I have come to fear,
for just as prejudice seemed cured,
our world has turned back to absurd.
Obamacare may be replaced
with a plan that’s more debased.
Hatred and misogyny
may be the next thing that will be
inflicted upon our brave world
that reels under each new ill hurled
before cycling back to light,
healing from each horrid blight.
Who seeks to “Trump” our earthly hand,
is one hand closer to being canned!
“. . . when anything reaches its maximum potential, it turns toward its opposite.”
–(translation of a principle stated in the i ching.)
If you want tohttps://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/contrast/
The Smell of Curry
Would that sentiment were only
positive and never lonely––
but all emotions of the world
in sentiment are tightly curled.
Every memory we cherish
is doubly edged with “live” and “perish.”
In every city, country, land––
bad and good go hand in hand.
The blend of cardamom and lentil
always makes me sentimental.
Odors of turmeric and its ilk,
garam masala and coco milk.
Curry spices being roasted,
degree of peppers being boasted,
chickpeas, carrots, potatoes, rice––
stirring in each thing that’s nice.
What do I think of when I smell
and taste that it is going well?
Bombay and wedding saris thin
sliding down my youthful skin.
Visions of a midnight ride
to cages with young girls inside
sold by their parents and then resold
nightly for a bit of gold.
Traffic, sitar music, fingers
scooping curry––all this lingers.
The beauty of that winsome song
that showed me where the world’s gone wrong.
His action, swift, unthinking, curt
of small coins cast into the dirt
to deflect those who beg and bleat,
surrounding us in every street.
Palaces and then the clash
of children in a world of trash,
the refuse of this giant city
the world they lived in—what a pity.
Back when traveling was new,
experiences were so few
that India changed my life forever.
So, will I forget it? Never.
If my bedroom were to open onto the beach side of my rental, this would be my early morning scene:
(Click on first picture, then on arrows to enlarge photos and view. When you’ve viewed all four pictures, click on X on upper left of your screen to return to my posting)
The only sounds I would hear? Gulls, the wash of waves on the shore, Bobino’s mute plea to be fed. But, in fact, my bedroom window which must be kept open for circulation, faces onto the street and at 8 o’clock, my reality is this:
No Perfection in the Universe
After only four hours’ sleep,
my slumber should be sound and deep;
but very early in the day,
mufflers seem to be passé.
My window opens to the street
to try to beat the daily heat,
so the sounds of ATV’s
enter freely with the breeze.
When motorcycles rev and roar
just outside my bedroom door
and trucks come rumbling two by two––
there is nothing I can do
but grab my computer and write my blog
when I should be sleeping like a log.
It’s true I might be way less surly
if I got to bed more early,
but you see it’s not to be
for when the bars all close at three
the motorcycles are just as loud
their drivers young and motor-proud.
They shout and roar and spin their wheels.
Their music beats and thumps and peals
as they do one pass or more
right outside my bedroom door.
Outside the other side of my rental
all the sounds are elemental.
The surf’s loud roar is more relaxing,
but here the engine roars are taxing!
So when you picture my vacation,
just think of the daily ration
of engine angst that I confess
and perhaps you’ll envy less.
The parade of mufflerless motorcycles, cars and revving trucks begins at eight a.m. Here is one minute of traffic passing in front of my house. The blue wall with the open door and window is mine.
(Click on first picture, then on arrows to enlarge photos and view.When you’ve viewed all 11 pictures, click on X on upper left of your screen to return to my posting.)
One Word? Absurd!
In truth, if I may be so bold,
these one-word prompts just leave me cold.
They do not give a hint to me
of what the topic’s meant to be.
If I want a prompt so curt,
so brief, so blunt, so short and pert,
I could go to a dictionary;
but one word simply doesn’t carry
enough thought to jog my mind.
I do not like prompts of this kind.
So WordPress please just heed my plea
and send a sentence prompt to me.
Then I’ll shut up and cease my rant.
But answer one word prompts? I can’t!!!!
The Secret Life of Gardeners
My gardener of fourteen years
has a stern unsmiling wife and grown children
that I used to know well.
I set his morning coffee on the terrace table
and there is some secret
twining through the dense thunbergia vine
that causes the flowers
to nod their heads.
Later, the man who does not know I watch
drinks his morning coffee grown tepid in the cup,
coughs gently (or is it a laugh?) behind the hand
that cradles the telephone,
sly smile betraying a secret love
as clearly as the small child
who sometimes accompanies him to work.
Some senora’s, he tells me,
but the child
has his eyes and solid legs,
his shy manner,
lives with his mother and her husband,
but sits on my steps with a sugar cookie––
betraying no more secrets
on purpose
than his father does.
(This is an extensive rewrite of a poem written three years ago. Since this is the fourth time I’ve written to this prompt in three years, it seems fair to do a rewrite on this round!)
Leapin’Lizards
Iguanas, lizards, gekkos, turtles, toads and frogs and snakes
are not the things that we should fear in life, for goodness sakes.
These creatures in their own domains present no awful threat.
Just leave them where they are, for none were made to be a pet.
Our tame lives seek to steal the wildness from such natural things,
but wildness is not what curtailing wildness ever brings.
We must learn to leap ourselves––by entering our lives
and breaking free from prisons–our cages, pens or hives––
to buzz the world around us and see what we can find
to release us from our lethargy and the ties that bind.
If you do not know the way, just go and find a child
and follow him or her to places where they keep the wild.
The beach or any sandpile may serve to be your clues
of how to color your own life with more vivid hues.
A thing as simple as wet sand can take a child to
places where you had forgot you could be taken to.
Castle moats or rivers, dams, mountain tops or caves
huge mansions that are sacrifices to that evening’s waves.
Our wild imaginations are where we all should go
to find a little wildness when our lives are slow.
Go find a dog to walk with if you need a pet
then take him out to some wild beach–and both of you, get wet!
Wildness is for doing, not for sitting on a shelf.
So free the creatures pining there and find some for yourself!
(Click on first photo to enlarge and view gallery)
Those baby sea turtles are being set free, not being collected. Happy Leap Year!!!
(If you want to know more about the release of the baby turtles, go HERE.)
This poem was written partially in response to this strange strange news from my home town that was sent to me by two friends yesterday. Read about it here: http://www.chapala.com/webboard/index.php?/topic/60430-tiger-in-la-floresta/
It was also in response to the prompt “Leap,” in honor of this being the extra day in this leap year! https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/leap/
Packing Light
On a desert island, abandoned but alive,
with aids to my survival numbering only five,
I’d need a contraption to desalinate water.
Then a tent to sit under once the day got hotter.
But while I’m in the shade, a solar panel would be nice
to plug in my computer and also a device
to connect it to a satellite so I could Skype my friend
to send fast transportation to bring this to an end!
The Prompt––Five Items: what are the five items you must have on a deserted island? https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/five-items/
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 