After seeing my mixed bouquet in Cee’s daily flower challenge, Forgottenman challenged me to write a poem making use of the name of every flower in the bouquet. Okay F-man, here it is. I rise to every challenge!!! (The names of the flowers in the bouquet are in bold print.)
Zinnia was the fairest maid the town had ever grown. She flirted with the mill boy and claimed him as her own. She rose and fed their baby with a silver spoon each morning as her husband lay abed ’til noon. To wake him up, she lay their child well within his reaches. He woke to that sweet baby’s breath-—just redolent of peaches. Brushing off her flour-dusted lover, Zinnia sent him on his way to grind more grain for townsfolk who had the means to pay, for although her dusty miller was not the working kind, true love will not buy Gerbers nor diaper a behind.
If I had a bit more moxie, I’d be Kardashian by proxy. I’d be less studious, more frocksie and trade these garments long and boxy for a mini dress that’s foxy, wear heels less Oxfordy and soxy, hang out with girls named Tess or Roxie, more cool and definitely less poxy. I’d be a cockette of the walksie!
The prompt today is willy-nilly. Now, what would you say the chances would be that I’d have written a poem that already contained that word? If you are thinking practically nil, then you are WRONG! Not only did I write a poem containing “willy-nilly” over two years ago, but it is even in the title. The assignment then was to talk about a holiday created in my honor and to describe it all—music, refreshments, decorations and who would come. Here it is, warts and all:
A Holiday Most Willy-Nilly
My namesake day would be a dilly. Simply not run-of-the-milly. For the concert, I’d have Willie and resurrect Milli Vanilli. Kind of music? Rock-a-Billy. For refreshments, I’d serve Chili. Though the terrain would be most hilly, they’d travel over rock-and-rilly for races of both stud and filly, and poets, fleet of tongue and quilly, reading poems both sage and silly.
You are a lovely woman, Kate— enough to cause my breath to bate, enough to stun and addlepate— but if we stop to ruminate each time we reach another gate, it is my fear that we’ll be late. Why not let me cogitate when forward progress to abate? If necessary, I vow to wait as we wage a long debate on whether to go left or straight as we approach the interstate, but each time you excoriate, criticise or agitate for route changes, I rue my fate the day I set up this blind date!!!
Nowhere to go, nowhere to flee. I cannot run away from me. I’m stuck inside with no way out. Just me, with no one else about. All the others are there outside this place where I alone abide.
If I could climb out of my skin and leave this body that I’m in, escape myself from head-to-toe, I wonder where I’d choose to go? Perhaps a river, perhaps a sea–– anyplace that wasn’t me.
For one day, I’d be a cloud if changing stages of matter’s allowed. Floating high up in the blue, I’d think of new things I could do. I’d find parades for me to view, then just for fun, rain on a few.
If I were water and you drank me, I’d view you internally. Tickle your uvula and then slide down the chute inside your skin. Inside you, I would rage and thunder, from your throat to way down under.
If I were wind, I’d lift the skirts of dour old ladies and teenage flirts. I’d muss the hair of social mavens, pluck nestlings from the beaks of ravens. No telling what a menace I’d be if I’d not been limited to me!