Tag Archives: rhyme

A Fine Vintage

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A Fine Vintage

Roving has been in my blood since I was just a  kid.
In hide and seek, I ran away while other kids just hid.
I’d stash myself six blocks away where they could never see me.
I couldn’t wait for age and circumstance to come and free me.

Other kids had tantrums, but I just had my dreams
that took my sheltered sedate life and split it at the seams.
It never once occurred to me that it would be naive
to think that after high school, I’d pack my bags and leave.

And after college in some place exotic in my mind,
I’d be off to travel with others of my kind.
I’d have a travel bonanza to Africa and France.
I’d even go to China if I had the chance.

Was it precognition or simply intuition
that all of my  travel dreams have come  to sweet fruition?
Everything I sought out there, each thing I hoped to find
I found in all those years that now I find I’ve left behind.

Now that my world is smaller and I’m more content,
nonetheless I still have memories that I can vent.
They’ve percolated in my mind as I cure and age
until they’ve aged sufficiently to pour out on the page.

 

The prompts for today are tantrum, roving and bonanza. Here are the links:

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/11/01/fowc-with-fandango-tantrum/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/11/01/roving/
https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/10/27/daily-addictions-2018-week-43/bonanza

Stalker


Stalker

The spectre of your memory haunts me less with every year.
Those things I feared so long ago, I no longer fear.
I do not flinch in public when I think I see your face.
No resemblance flags my terror as I wander place to place.
To reinforce my courage, I have wiped you from my mind,
changed my modus operandi to avoid your type and kind.
Although you haunt my past, you have no presence in the present,
where I admit your absence is what makes my life so pleasant.

 

Today’s prompt words are flag, public, spectre and reinforce. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/10/23/rdp-tuesday-flag/
https://fivedotoh.com/2018/10/23/fowc-with-fandango-public/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/10/23/spectre/
https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/10/21/daily-addictions-2018-week-42/reinforce

Imitations of Immortality

Imitations of Immortality

Lend my consciousness to an android—every feeling, thought, ambition?
Can I commit this practice without suffering perdition?
Why not replace the faulty parts? We do it with our car,
and with this perishable body, I won’t get very far.
So why not buy a new one if I have the cash to do so?
I may even treat myself to invest in a few so
I can change my body like others change their clothes.
I’ll put me in a fresh one while the other bodies doze.
I’ll live a life that’s double. I won’t waste any hours.
Twenty-four hours of every day, I’ll exercise my powers.
Will I still be myself? Yes. It’s plain as it can be
that I won’t be my android. My android will be me.

The promptWelcome to the future. We now have the technology to upload your consciousness into an android body. The feelings, thoughts, and ambitions that make you unique remain after the transfer. Do you accept this new reality given the opportunity, and why? 

https://normalhappenings.com/2018/10/21/getting-an-upgrade-daily-inkling/

Longing: Non-WordPress Prompt for the Day

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Knowing this was the first time in over 4 years that I haven’t had a WordPress daily prompt to follow, forgottenman gave me this one.  If you’d like to join me, just post your blog and then give a link to your blog in my comments section. Being that this is also Open Link Night in dVerse poets, if you are writing a poem, you can also link it HERE. Be sure to use the Mr. Linky bar given on this site to link your poem.

I will list links to other new prompt sites as I discover them tomorrow.

Longing

This morning’s church bells’ constant bongings
woke me to familiar longings.
Coded as they were in dreams,
when I awoke, they split their seams
and spilled into my conscious thought.
Futile to yearn for what I’m not.
No longer young or lithe or trim,
no passions spilling from my brim.
No husband, mother, father, lover.
No guardians to watch and hover.
I’ve grown away from most of life,
connections severed as with a knife.
Still, I do not long for these.
I do not pray on bended knees
for what is past or what is lost,
for I know pining’s pain and cost.
My longing, now, is just to see
what life’s plot is left to me.

The prompt today was longing.

Cruel Question


Cruel Question

It bothers me, I must confess.
What happens to a wedding dress
after it’s had its opening day?
Is it simply packed away?
If so, you’d think once time has passed
they’d finally reappear at last
in church bazaar or resale store
or other places where things of yore
emerge from attic, basement, closet
or other area of deposit.
(In whatever dark place they’ve all lain,
thinking they’ll be used again.)

There should be rooms filled with selections
of these nuptial confections.
Warehouses stuffed full of them,
varied in neckline, cut and hem.
Why do we not see huge barrages
of wedding gowns sold from garages
along with strollers and kiddie toys
cast off by grown up girls and boys?
Surely every aging bride
has a wedding dress inside
a trunk or closet—way up high.
What happens when their wearers die?

Garments of satin or nylon net—
what could be the etiquette
that guides a family in such matters?
If the gown is not in tatters
and worn away by age and mold,
surely it would be resold.
If so, where are the warehouses
where gowns bereft of brides and spouses
lie stockpiled awaiting chances
for other wedding vows and dances?
Where is the wedding gown museum
where we might journey to go to see ’em?

I’ll now chance being thought abrupt,
unsentimental, cold, corrupt
by saying what I have to say.
Do families throw these gowns away?
Buried under hills of trash
is there a wedding veil or sash?
Satin bodices and trains
diminished by decades of rains?
Do gowns once virginally snowy,
and spectacularly showy
now lie buried like their dreams,
slowly decaying at the seams?

These images, you might guess,
seem calculated to depress.
Who wants these pictures in her head
as her wedding vows are said?
This poem is meant for crones like me,
bent of back and stiff of knee,
who’ve run out of memories to ponder
and so must journey over yonder
to the macabre side of pondering
for their mental wandering.
That said, past brides, will you confess
what happened to your wedding dress?

The prompt today is abrupt.

Banded

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Banded

From string to string and fret to fret,
they draw us into music’s net.
They strum and pick and blithely finger
notes that make us want to linger,
tap the table, move our feet
to their infectious strumming beat.

They are my favorite sort of band––
unique and playing their own brand
of acoustic, bluesy notes––
a kind of music that denotes
connection to a world of hearts.
Their music woos and cuts and smarts.

Opening sensibilities.
Music that unites and frees
our spirits to commune and soar.
Notes that journey to our core.
Which is what music’s meant to do
in  dancehall, city street or pew.

Good music sets our hats askew,
chases us down and counts a coup.
Stirs our hearts and brings a change.
Astounds us with its depth and range.
Draws us with it, layer on layer,
unites us in communal prayer.

Denominationless, it draws
us in and gives a place to pause
together to survey that place
devoid of sex or age or race.
That place where we unite in song.
Give up ourselves, and sing along.

The prompt today is fret.

Naughty Little Pleasures: NaPoWriMo, April 1, 2018

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Naughty LIttle Pleasures

Naughty little pleasures, secret little games—
they are our private treasures, these solitary shames.
We never can admit them to family or friends,
for fear that doing so would  bring about their ends.
Childhood is when our private pleasure starts—
not stifling our sneezes or holding back our farts.
Eating the last cupcake or hiding Grandpa’s teeth.
Watching skirts on windy days to see what’s underneath.
Torturing sister’s Barbie Dolls and kidnapping her bears.
Reading Daddy’s magazines underneath the stairs.
Guzzling ice cream from the carton and milk right from the spout.
Opening sister’s love letters to see what they’re about.
Telling mom you’ll help her because she’s running late,
then licking all the cookies you’re putting on the plate.
If being perfect were more fun, then probably we would,
but there’s little pleasure in always being good.

For your listening pleasure, my friend Christine Anfossie added music to the poem and sent me a copy to share with you. Listen to it here: 

 

The NaPoWriMo prompt: write a poem that is based on a secret shame, or a secret pleasure.