Tag Archives: poem

Biker Wedding

Biker Wedding

Though I’m just your uncle and backward at that,
I’m exceedingly fond of my sister’s sweet brat.
I hear there’s a  biker you’re eager to wed
and though I’d suggest  a nice banker instead,
I’m here not to alienate, but advise
(since I am your kin who’s most apt to be wise.)

Instead of a veil you’ll be wearing your patches
and learning his lingo by listening to snatches
of biker bar gossip and those conversations
spawned over road talk and major libations.
You’ll be in your flannels and Kevlar-lined denim
(I’m sure that no bride ever looked better in ’em.)

You’ll whisper “I do” and then exchange your patches
before you head out for a ride down to Natchez.
But, first things being first, you have asked me to aid
in getting your wedding invitations made.
I’ve checked out your spelling. The words are all fine.
Only the printing may be out of line.

Though responsible service may not be impossible,
are you quite sure that leather is embossable?

Prompt words today are uncle, alienate, backward, responsible and service.

He

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He

would have married the girl and had children
and been less overt with his teachings
of peace and love too radical
for a world immersed in their opposite.

He would then not have changed the world, perhaps,
but  only lived in contrast
to that power popular among those who needed it
and effective in keeping those averse to it quiet.

If he had married the girl, the world would probably have ended up
pretty much how it has anyway, but he might have had a different ending.
Grown old, had his cronies over to talk about the good old days,
converted water into wine and served them loaves and fishes.

Mary Magdalene would have danced for them in their memories,
and all of his grandchildren would have listened in awe
to hear the tales of how he walked on the water,
bade Lazarus to rise from the grave.

He would shush his cronies as they started in
with tales of how he smashed the souvenir stands
and threw the money changers out of the temple.
Not stories for young ears not quite ready to learn revolution.

And all of the ill done in his name might have happened anyway,
but at least he would have had a good life.  Would have suffered less.
And some other savior might have found a way to save the world
that would have worked.

 

FordVerse Poets Pub: Write a poem about a deceased person.

 

Wheeler-Dealer

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Wheeler-Dealer

I am not sorry
for the hours I have stolen
away from your busy life.
You should have given them freely.
I was trying to teach you that.

You were such a poor student,
professing love, then
rushing off hither and yon.

Early morning flea markets
spawned caches—
rental garages stuffed with treasures
that didn’t fit into a house
 already filled with me
years before you moved in.

You picked things up
in driveways
and on curbsides,
widows in the seat next to you 
on bargain flights alone to Mexico.

You snatched me
from that singles party
before I even got my coat off.
Eye trained at the door,
you knew lonely

when you saw it.
   
Commandeering
my Ford Econoline camper van,

you drove me off to most of California,
then to Mexico,
while I tried to teach you how to be
where you were. Pouring salt on your tail,
trying to hold your gaze.

And I am not sorry— either for what I asked of you
or for throwing away the rest of you—
that busy bee, buzzing from bloom to bloom
to see what it could find.

For NaNoWriMo 2020, day 13, we are to write an apology for something we’ve stolen.

This, Too?

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This, Too?

In planning for a place remote,
considering a life afloat.
I might collaborate with friends
so we can meet communal ends
planning out a scheme for life
far away from pain and strife.

We’d set a mutual course on seas
far away from the disease
that snakes its way as it might please.

And having learned our lesson well,
we’d escape this landlocked Hell
and float in colonies off shore,
keeping at least  ten feet or more
apart until the curse was through
and we could start our lives anew.

But, alas, I have no yacht
and a sailor I am not,
So my sailing schemes are shot!

Instead, I’ll sail a sea of dreams
and face the threat landlocked, it seems!
So don’t drop in for a small visit.
A social life’s not healthy, is it?
I’ll pass my social life alone
chatting on the telephone

attired in my sleeping togs,
stroking the cats, patting the dogs,
communicating on my blogs

with all the humans I have left.
in a sequestered world bereft
of face-to-face and hip-to-hip,
let alone of lip-to-lip!!
This too shall pass, optimists say.
The world will see a brighter day.

We’ve survived aids, the plague and SARS,
global warming (so far) and cars.
We’re the universe’s superstars.

Prompt words today are remote, collaborate, lesson, course and snake.

Strangely enough, no matter how many times I center this poem, every other stanza wants to separate itself from the stanzas that precede and follow it. Strangely enough, it echoes the theme, so instead of trying to center it for the third time, I am just going to leave it as is.

Extended Family

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Extended Family

My furry raider sloshed through rain
out to the barn and back again,
but next trip was a passenger
his human cuddled close to her
so both could view the transient
new mother so intently bent
over her bounty, newly born
this blustery, rainy, wind-swept morn.

One more thing born that rainy day
around three homeless ones that lay
snuggled down within the hay
protected from the weather’s fray—
a sense of family between
an old male cat, once feral, mean—
who had been taken in himself
and these three waifs, curled on a shelf
within that barn where I’d found him.
Now both of us discovered them
and that day welcomed them, all three
to our extended family.

Prompt words today are raiderslosh, transient, bounty, and passenger.

When First Love Expires (Not a Reblog)

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When First Love Expires

Go tell the young ladies. Go tell the young men.
Those shattered by lost love will find love again.
We recover from passion. Rarely does it kill,
and there’s plenty more of it over the hill.

That queen of your pulse, that king of your heart,
may not be your ending. It may be your start.
Don’t retire with your failure, but once more begin.
Take the leap and try love all over again.

That sweet grass dried up, we harvest as hay.
First love is a beacon that just lights the way

for your next lover—an adequate light
to create a harvest from yesterday’s blight.

Love is a virus that’s hopelessly catching—
a miraculous egg that just goes on hatching.
So do not despair if your first love expires.
Make further use of the lust it inspires.

 

The prompts for today are beacon, adequate, recover, leap and king.

Memory Games

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Memory Games

Though memories are sketchy, those that remain are vivid—
mere scraps of joy or humor or times when she was livid.
No way to tell what snips of time her memory will nourish—
current relations lost to time while past ones live and flourish.

The mind does nasty tricks when it decides to misbehave.
It may leave us abandoned within its darkening cave,
or perhaps it casts a cinema only one can see,
drawing them into a world of dreams where they are free.

No one who walks through memory’s door can return to tell
whether it is heaven or a living hell.
Another trick of life that draws us fast within it,
forcing us to play the game without a way to win it.

Prompt words for today are jive, sketchy, relations and vivid.

Torch of Liberty

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Torch of Liberty

If we could kidnap inequality and lock it safe away,
then resurrect our scruples and let them have their say,
we could acquit our consciences and set our nation right.
Then reilluminate her torch to guide us through the night.

 

Prompt words today are acquit, scruples, kidnap, inequality Photo by Juan Mayobre on Unsplash Used with Permission.

A Little Night Music

maeghan-smulders-pIY5yM0bmMQ-unsplashPhoto by Maeghan Smulders on Unsplash. Used with permission

A Little Night Music

It may seem eccentric to sing in your sleep,
but when I’m in slumber so sound and so deep,
sometimes my voice just wants to get out
in some type of utterance—whisper or shout.
And then if I must, would it be such a pity
to let out my voice in a full-throated ditty?
Folks walk in their sleep, so why can’t they sing?
Why would you consider it such a strange thing?
Dreams can’t be censored, directed or herded.
There are times when  a melody must be asserted.
So if you should hear my somnambulant song,
please stifle complaints and just hum along!!

Prompt words today are sleep, rare, eccentric and sing.

Portrait of the Artist

My husband was an artist and so it seemed fitting to write a profile/portrait of him that described him primarily in terms of color.

Portrait of the Artist

The artist in you
understood color so well.
And yet, even as you layered on
red and green,
so much of you was blue.

Your white hair,
loosened from the pony tail

and streaming down your back
in your wild man look,
prompted strangers to ask
if you were a shaman,
or declare you to be one.

But there was
that black in you
that altered it,
that shade created
by the blend
of white and black
you knew so well.

The red that flamed out from your work,
subtly put there even in places
where it had no logical purpose for being,

that red tried to make things right.

Yet all of us
who knew you well

knew the blue.
It was the background color
of all of your days.

It was the blanket
in which we wrapped
ourselves
at night,

trying to be close,
but so often
divided

by it.

For fifteen years, I tried
to paint you yellow.
There were splashes of it, surely,

throughout our lives together.
You on the stage, reading your heart,
me in the audience, recognizing
all the colors caught within you.

Finding the pictures you had taken of me
studying your work at the art show,

those pictures you had snapped surreptitiously
even before we  met,

I discovered, after your passing,
that you had recognized
me even then, when I thought
I was the only one
angling for a meeting—
sure of my need to know
those secret parts of you

that I will never know
now that you have given yourself
to whatever color your ever-after
has delivered you to.

A new life later,
I am suffused
by my own canvas
of memories of you—
every other pigment
splashed against
a vivid background
of yellow.

 

The dVerse Poetics prompt is to create a profile or self-profile in verse. Go HERE to read additional poems written to this prompt by others.