Wit and the Art of Courtship
I simply do not care a whit
so long as you have brains and wit
whether you have looks or fame,
degreed initials by your name,
yachts, mansions or limousines.
These things are surely not the means
to win my heart and claim my hand.
I would not wear a wedding band
for cash or notoriety.
It must be given you for free.
If our minds have found a fit,
my heart will go along with it.
The prompt today was witty.
Foreshadowing
Why does the loveliest flower have the sharpest thorn
so you had to pay the tariff of young flesh pierced and torn
by the most splendid ornament that you had ever worn
as he clasped you to the music of the saxophone and horn?
It’s been true each day you’ve lived, was true when you were born,
and your father brought fresh roses—your bedside to adorn.
And it will go on being true on that future morn
when roses will be carried by those saddened and forlorn
as they place your ashes where you’ve asked that they be borne:
back to that same rose bush that so long ago was shorn
of the roses that you carried when your wedding vows were sworn.
The prompt today is thorny.
photo by Georgia King
Exchanging Words On Little Santa Monica
There on that city avenue,
I watched you as I sipped my brew.
Not the woman you’d chosen to woo
as you read poetry so true,
so raw, so blunt, so rare and new,
the air around you turned to blue.
Your sad poems caressed and drew
us closer. All that motley crew.
For me, love was a new venue
that night I first set eyes on you,
but there was such a ballyhoo
around you, that you had no clue
that I had joined the retinue
of women waiting in your queue.
But as I left, oh yes, I knew.
My life took on a brighter hue.
And though you were far out of view,
your memory stuck to me like glue.
Thoughts of you both birthed and slew.
Our meeting was long overdue
that night I saw you in the pew—
there to hear the poems I grew
from words carefully chosen and few,
I drew you in by some voodoo.
Perhaps our muses conspired and blew
winds from exotic Xanadu
or Zanzibar or high Peru,
the air around us to imbue,
giving us the selfsame cue:
this is the lover meant for you,
your octoroon and kangaroo,
the heart you’ll break, the fat you’ll chew.
Of all words plucked from life’s rich stew,
the ones that I would never rue.
Never would they ring untrue.
Those words that, though we might redo them,
never could I overdo them.
The words I’d sought my whole life through.
The vow I’d renew and renew.
That one rare thing I’d finally do.
The prompt word today is continue. It is the first word I’ve ever found that has a rhyming word that begins with each letter in the alphabet! I discovered this without consulting Google or a rhyming dictionary, which I occasionally have to resort to when a word is especially hard to find enough rhymes for. I found 64 rhyming words. Still haven’t checked any dictionaries. They may have additional ones, but these are mine, all mine! The only rhyme that is repeated is the word “you,”
“The” Words: avenue ballyhoo blew blue boo (boo hoo) brew chew clue crew cue do (doo doo) drew due eschew ew few glue goo grew hew hue imbue issue Jew kangaroo Kew, knew loo mew moo new overdo overdue Peru pew phew poo queue redo renew retinue rue screw shrew slew stew sue through true undo untrue venue view vindaloo voodoo whew woo Xanadu you zoo
The prompt word today is continue.
This poem was written making use of only the letters of the word enamoured, which was the prompt word for today.
Enamoured
Mere man, mere dame,
a mean red moon.
A dream remade,
a mar, a dune.
Marooned and moored
and no end near.
Me enamoré.
Me arrear.
(In Spanish, a”mar” is a sea or ocean, but “a mar” can also mean to love. “Me enamoreé“means “I fell in love.” “Me Arrear” can mean either “I got caught,” “drive me” or “Grab me.” It also carries the connotation for me that the object of her affection’s love might be in arrears. “En arrear” can have that meaning in Spanish as well. Since I used the British spelling of the title word to increase my choices, I guess you could say this poem is trilingual. Comes in handy when limited in the consonants and vowels one can use.
jdbphotos (Click on any photo to enlarge all)
When we were young, before love rusted,
how we pined and how we lusted.
We lived on love. So sure. Nonplussed.
As though we held a deed of trust
on those we kissed. We arched, they thrust,
our hearts pounding as though percussed.
We came home rumpled, dizzy, mussed—
our heads swirling, slightly concussed.
Our mothers warned. Our fathers fussed,
seeking to turn our dreams to dust.
Our hearts reeling in shamed disgust,
our faces flamed as they discussed.
And although we thought we must
pretend to listen, inside we cussed,
knowing their words to be unjust.
Within each throbbing teenage bust
beat a heart free of distrust,
bursting with love’s wanderlust.
Back there at our very starts,
as we were learning to use our hearts,
back when we thought they might combust,
our hearts were tender, without crust.
We gave them fully with no mistrust.
We thought the world of love was just.
The prompt word today was lust.
Sinning Lessons
I am a paragon of virtue. I have no other choice.
I do not have a figure. I have no sultry voice.
I’ve no talent at kissing. The boys leave me alone.
I have no lovers calling me nightly on the phone.
I get my thrills from scripture. I embroider and I tat.
The creature that I cuddle with is an old grey cat.
Sometimes virtue’s chosen, but it isn’t so with me.
I’d rather spend my weekend nights on some feller’s knee.
But it isn’t in the cards. It’s just my Ma and me.
I guess I’ll just be buttoned up instead of brash and free.
My ma found a new hired man. He isn’t very tall.
A moustache but no muscles. Not swashbuckling at all.
But he has a good strong back. He carries water for me.
And for reasons I can’t fathom, he seems to adore me.
It’s one morning in the cow barn, milking Bossie, that I miss
the bucket with the milk stream when the hired man plants a kiss
on my neck as I bend over. It makes that old cat’s day.
He opens up his mouth and drinks as I just dream and sway
then turn to open my mouth, too, and see how kisses feel
when they are given mouth-to-mouth. It makes me almost reel.
But Hank the hired man catches me, sets me straight again,
and that’s the starting of my life as a paragon of sin!
Sinning’s not so bad at all. You can’t believe the preacher.
And it’s not so hard to do when you have a teacher.
Lessons started in the milking barn but ended in the loft.
The hired man got handsomer as he took his clothing off.
I think he liked me better, too, when I was in the buff
for no matter how much more I showed, it never seemed enough.
We had a lovely time up there, the hired man and me.
As testament, now seven kids cluster round my knee.
The hired man’s beside me. As I sit and hold his hand,
he runs his fingers back and forth across my wedding band.
The old gray cat’s still happy, for sometimes he still gets lucky
when I’m distracted in the milking ’cause my husband’s feeling plucky.
Married life is lovely. We’re happy, him and me.
We are paragons of loving for perpetuity.
The prompt today is “paragon.”
The Subtle Art of Love’s Debate
If you want true love to be your fate,
heed the advice I here relate:
the subtle art of love’s debate
requires words that resonate—
that tease and lure and serve as bait—
that charm as well as educate.
Many a lover learned too late
that loneliness would be his fate
because what he chose to relate
in one fell swoop on a first date
seemed only to exacerbate
or even worse to detonate.
Suitors, weigh your words inside
before you choose to rage or chide.
To stroll love’s pathway, walk the walk.
Take time to listen as well as talk.
Your questions will win you more hearts
than trying to display your smarts.
The greater part of conversation
lies not within one’s recitation.
Instead of gross bombacity,
express your curiosity.
Love plans require less machination.
Just greet her words with fascination.
The prompt today was detonate.
jdbphoto2015
Open Hand
Wings held lightly without crushing
survive to join the world’s wild rushing,
while love held by a tight-clenched fist
quells half our reason to exist.
Some laud passions most rapacious—
grasping, volatile, tenacious;
but this is not the love I feel.
I do not seek to swoon or reel.
The tenacity of a skin tight glove
might stay my soaring to heights above.
I need your love like an open hand.
Not for me the wedding band.
The bond I seek from you, my dear,
is not the gauntlet that I fear
but rather, fingers whose sensations
are left free to life’s elations.
Butterflies kept in a jar
lose that beauty seen from afar.
That grace of movement caught on air
is what makes their beauty rare.
I love it when your arms enfold,
but if you love me, loose your hold.
The measure of my tenacity
is that I’ll come back to thee.
jdbphoto
The prompt word today was tenacious.
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The prompt word today was purple.
Shooting Stars
We were both so young and nimble
on those nights the world would tremble
with a touch, much less a kiss.
You a farm boy, me a miss
unaccustomed to such things
that woke my heart and gave it wings.
Some part of me knew even then
it was just what might have been—
that though you made my body sing,
it was not an ever-after thing.
Still, oh those nights, remembered still,
parked somewhere on a prairie hill,
I knew for then I was your world,
enraptured and securely curled
In the nest of puppy love.
The very stars trembled above.
The prompt today was tremble.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 