Tag Archives: SoCS

The Ballad of Poor Molly, for SOCS, Aug 2, 2024

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The Ballad of Poor Molly

Poor Molly Smith was lonely sure on every weekend night.
No lover had she to insure an end to her sad plight.
She’d read of match.com and then eHarmony and others.
No more would she be chickless hen if she could have her druthers.
She took her keyboard in her hand to find a true love there,
for sparsely was the household manned of this poor maiden fair.
She put her name upon a site and waited for some word.
A day went by and then a night, but nothing had she heard.

Her profile words were erudite, written with such care.
Everything was done just right, yet no man found she there.
She started blogging all day long, “liked” members’ every word;
but still something was very wrong. She found it all absurd.
Other women found true love on OkCupid, but
no pierced heart, no cooing dove released her from her rut.
She sought her profile to imbue and stretched the truth, I fear.
Her hair turned blonde, her bust size grew, her beauty knew no peer.

She found a picture of some tart both sexy, tanned and toned.
Perhaps it wasn’t really smart, but soon a suitor phoned.
They made a date to meet for drinks, then she began to worry.
Her hair had all these ugly kinks, her upper lip was furry.
Her height was five-foot-four, not eight, her dress size twelve, not six.
How could she show up for this date? Poor Mol was in a fix.
She read his profile once again: handsome, rich and funny.
She felt a surge of pure chagrin. He’d humor, looks and money?

She printed up his profile pic and pinned it to her couch.
His skin was bronzed, his muscles thick, while she was flabby. Ouch!
She took a bottle to her hair and died it light as flax,
bought heels as high as she could dare and tummy-control slacks.
She ran three miles or more that day (or she more likely walked);
and thought about what she would say If her new suitor balked.
Could medication swell one out for twenty pounds or more?
Would he accept without a doubt this apologetic lore?

The time grew short. She bathed and fussed and straightened out her hair.
Her body girdled, squeezed and trussed––to sit she didn’t dare.
She’d take a bus and spend the ride standing in the aisle.
The acid churning her inside was turning into bile.
She grabbed her purse and locked the door and sprinted for the bus.
Her girdle crawled an inch or more. It made her want to cuss.
She tugged it down, got on the bus and tried to stand erect.
One way out of all this muss would be to have a wreck!

The driver drove with extra care to take her to her meal.
Yet when she wobbled down the stair, she broke one three-inch heel.
By then her hair had kinked again, her girdle slowly rose.
She had peroxide on her chin and also on her nose.
She almost left, gave in to doubt; but then she stopped to think.
Her curiosity won out. She’d stay for just one drink.
She saw him just as soon as she had entered in the door.
He was tall and golly, gee, was handsome, fit and more!

She ducked into the ladies room to tame her crazy hair
and contemplate upcoming doom. What an unlikely pair!
Then gathered all her courage up and went to meet her fate.
She’d have a drink, forget the sup and end this nightmare date.
She walked right up and tapped his arm and said his name,”Dupree?”
And when he turned, his look was warm, but he said, “That isn’t me.”
She felt a touch upon her hair and turned to find out who
or what had deigned to touch her where she’d recently changed hue.

A little man about her height, really cute, but chubby, too,
was chuckling with all his might and looking at her shoe.
“What in heaven happened to you?” he asked, and then he snatched
and snapped the heel right off her shoe so both of her heels matched.
“My name’s Dupree,” he said, “You’re you. I’d know you anywhere.
You’re tall and slim, your eyes are blue, your hair is straight and fair.
I hope you’re not too mad at my prevaricating way.
I’m really not too bad a guy no matter what they say.

I know I stretched the truth a bit. Not all I say is true,
but how else would I find a fit with such a babe as you?”
She went into the ladies room and slipped out of her girdle.
The date foreseen with dread and gloom was not the foretold hurdle.
They ate four courses, then one more. They laughed and traded quips.
He drove her home right to her door and kissed her on the lips!
Now Molly’s nest is feathered. Of chicks, she numbers three.
And Dupree is firmly tethered with Molly on his knee.

 

For SOCS prompt: Poor

Moving the Divan

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Moving the Divan

I don’t want to write a poem
using three of my five senses.
I want to move the large divan to a 45-degree angle
and throw away the love seat
to make room for another file cabinet
for my poetry.

It’s stacked all over,
stowed at least two times alphabetically
in boxes beneath my desk,
hidden in the custom headboard of my bed.
File cabinets fill the bottom of every closet.
I’ve come to cutting up poems to make collages
and selling them.
That’s how much I need another file cabinet.
So it’s either more poems in the future
or the love seat.

I don’t want to talk about
how the love seat smells.
It’s Jacaranda blooming time
and with my allergies,
nothing smells like anything.

I will concede, however, that it is grained
like the crepe of my father’s neck––
like cowhide or whatever that leather is
that has impressions
like thousands of small rivers forming a network.
I don’t want to look up
exactly which leather it is on Google.
That one action
could divert me for at least an hour.

And I don‘t want to tell you any more about
what the loveseat is “like.”
I want to tell you that I bought it
when I found a pee stain
on the fabric of my old couch
after the last party a friend attended
before he died.
I cleaned it, then sold it along with its larger brother
and bought a stain-proof leather sofa with matching loveseat.
I don’t want to worry about what friend sits where
or exclude anyone from my guest list on account of my divan.

This leather feels like hanging on to old friends for as long as I can.
This loveseat feels willing to be given up for poetry,
and I know exactly where it should go.
I want it to have a good life
in a coffee bar,
in the library section.

My loveseat will smell like espresso
and bear the crayon marks of children
who come to play there.
It will be made love on
by the young couple that
lives upstairs.
It will have her homemade cheesecake crumbs
fall into its crevasses.
Its very fibers will soak up the music
that is played there
and the poetry that’s read there.

It will be worn out by life
instead of time.
It will predecease its matching full-sized sofa,
but it will be full of smells, textures, tastes and
when people sink into it, you will hear its sound––
that sigh of comfort or grunt of momentary
discomfort as knees bend in penance
for the comfort that is to come.

The rivers in the leather
will be smoothed out
by the bottoms of those
drinking espresso
and frappuccinos
and red wine and cerveza,
growing wider with the cheesecake,
settling in comfortably for conversation
and music and refreshment. Oh, and poetry.

And that, my friend, is how thinking about
rearranging furniture became poetry,
and how that very poem
may find a home.

For SOCS: Move

A Whiff, For SOCS, May 18, 2024

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A Whiff

What’s that smell
that spray can’t quell?
Smells a bit
like puppy shit,
but never fear,
no puppies here.
It comes alone
from Mom’s cologne.
Efforts relentless
to turn her scentless?
Those ends we sought
have turned to naught.
Each day or two?
A new pee-yew!!!!

 

Without a doubt, the absolute worst perfume ever invented on Earth was Ben Hur. Guaranteed to empty a room the minute its wearer entered!

 

For SOCS: What’s that smell? For this challenge we had to write stream of consciousness with no editing….Phew.

 

Showing Up Late for Happy Hour at the Corner Cantina, For SOCS Apr 27, 2024

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Showing Up Late for Happy Hour at the Corner Cantina

DSC09815

Showing Up Late for Happy Hour at the Corner Cantina

I’m late because of accidents and countless little slips
like toothpaste down my shirt front, hair caught in my zips
and a seat belt that was caught and wouldn’t span my hips.

So bring out all your arsenal—your bludgeons and your whips.
I deserve your censure, your curses and your yips.
Perhaps it is my fault that you’re in tequila’s grips!

By looking at the tablecloth and counting all the drips,
It seems that all the salsa’s not contacting your lips,
and all your margaritas aren’t winding up as sips.

I’m making the assumption you might need more chips,
and more salsa fresca and guacamole dips,
which means our busy waiter must make some extra trips.

He doesn’t seem amused by all your clever quips
which increase with the frequency of your little nips,
so I’m hoping the aforementioned will earn him larger tips!

For SOCS: The prompt word is “Show”

That Woman in the Mirror, For SOCS, Mar 22, 2024

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That Woman in the Mirror

The woman in the mirror has a better sense of humor than I do. This is because she does not need to depart to go into the world. She controls what is behind her and in front of her. Her wounds are my wounds. Her wrinkles are the selfsame wrinkles that fail to respond to the expensive face cream my sister sent me for my birthday. A gentle hint that my apparent age reveals her age, 4 years older.

The woman in the mirror does not necessarily reflect my feelings. She sometimes freezes in surprise at my tears. Chides me to get a hold on myself. She steams over at times and refuses to confront me. She does not flinch at sprays of toothpaste or a misting over of hairspray. She grows younger as the layers thicken. The woman in the mirror chides me to refresh my lipstick, define my eyebrows, pluck hair chins. Slowly, slowly, she ages—turning into first my mother and then my Grandmother, whom I had thought I had left so far behind. That self-pitying look? Shame on her, I chide. Those ever-lowering breasts, that additional girth? I will never get like that, I think, and then I remember.

There is a mirror in my house where my Grandmother cannot find me—a full-length miracle mirror where the one looking back at me is a woman in her 40’s, just barely overweight. She is my grandmother, stretched out—lengthened and diminished in width. It is the sort of mirror that was once seen in fancy dress shops that encouraged women to buy and buy. Like The Hollywood shop from fifty years ago, now long abandoned, shuttered and replaced by a Radio Shack…but whose charms can still lull me into a luxurious feeling that all is well. I am as I should be.

I flip off the bathroom light and move to the bedroom to catch a last glimpse of me in that magical full-length mirror, then climb into bed to dream and dream those slender dreams that, if we are lucky, are the ones that remain in our memory long after the mirrors have cracked and crumbled, like other more recent memories that fade quickly to give way to the past.

For the Stream of Consciousness Friday Prompt: The Room I am In

Stream of Consciousness Saturday Prompt: Clown

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Here is the lithograph I based my poem on:

Pablo Picasso

And here is my poem:

On Picasso’s Imaginary Self-Portrait

Is it conceit or self-knowledge
that makes you paint yourself
in the ruffed collar
of Shakespeare
or a clown?

Satyr, young at heart,
your merry countenance
masks darker moods and behaviors,
the bright pigments
hiding a more somber undercoat.

Picasso,
your children
and your mistresses
might paint you as master:
stern, egotistical,
but always with the backlit inspiration
of genius.
Yet, old goat,
you paint yourself a clown.

For Linda’s SoCS prompt “clown”.

Meat Market for SOCS, Nov 3, 2023

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Version 2

Meat Market Surprise

Her low-cut dress clearly bespoke
her dire need to meet a bloke.
When she removed her swathing cloak,
a dozen men at once awoke
from barroom reveries to choke
on swallows of their Rum and Coke
or beer or whisky. “Okeedoke!”
their eyes said, as they shared the joke.
Which one would have the night’s best poke?
One chugged his drink, as if to stoke
his courage. One more took a toke.
They circled round, craving the yoke
of one night’s spree–perhaps a soak
in penthouse hot tub most Baroque?
Then, as though wishes could invoke
more luck, a mini-skirt and toque-
clad example of fine womanfolk
appeared , more passions to provoke—
another goddess made to evoke
a duel, heart attack or stroke!
But then, alas, their bubbles broke
as she sauntered up and pulled an oak
stool to the bar and spoke.
Her voice was sultry—fire and smoke—
as she killed their dreams in one fell stroke.
“Darling,” she said to the other miss,
enfolding her in an ardent kiss.

 

For #SOCS: Meat (This is a reblog of a 2019 poem, but since all of my writing is stream of consciousness, I figure it meets the prompt.)

Prime

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Travel Primer (Past Our Prime!)

We wander narrow alleyways in countries that are foreign—
negotiate their tunnels, like rabbits in a warren.
We do not pay attention as we ogle and we gawk
who may follow closely—who may observe and stalk.
We are naive travelers. We’re innocents abroad.
One listens to our narratives, then signals with a nod
just as we are reaching to try to reimburse,
for another watcher to swoop down on our purse.
Then they’re off down alleyways where we are loath to go
where they’ll have their own adventures—financed by our dough.

For #SOCS Oct 7, the prompt is “Prime.”

 

“Running Away” for SOCS

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My garden
This is the view from the hammock.
And so is this.
And so is this.

And for another reason I run away to the garden and/or hammocks, go HERE
to see what else I see from there. 

For SOCS Sept 16, 2023

Nightmare, for SOCS

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Nightmare.

Come here, my dear.
Those dangers near,
though they appear
to mock and leer,
will not come here.
So dry each tear.
Danger’s jeer,
it’s truly clear,
is just sheer
groundless fear.

The prompt for SOCS is to grab the book closest to you, open at random and use the first three words of the first full sentence on that page to start your post.  Here goes….The book was The Blue Butterfly by Leslie Johansen Nack. The three words, Come here, my. . . .
Image by Paz Z on Unsplash.