They gather round the pool for a glass of wine— their voices soft as butter with a continental whine. Their conversation heady. She’s finally arrived, running from that castoff life that she barely survived.
She changes personalities according to her whim. She became a baroness the moment she met him. Tonight in the wine bar, perhaps she’ll be a waif. In such low localities, a title isn’t safe.
The fantasies of childhood have certainly paid off. One day she is a Renoir, the next she’s a Van Gogh. One face follows another with a costume change. Her various identities show an extensive range.
Being so many people is her brand of fun. You’d call her a chameleon if you knew more than one. But she is very careful. One identity per friend. She saves her next identity for those met round the bend.
Prompt words today are butter, heady, glass, pool.*This poem was not written about the girl in the photo. I love this photo I took of my niece and although I felt the image worked to illustrate the poem, it is not illustrative of her personality.
Your sardonic humor and your endless cynicism has, in truth, created such a deep and boundless schism that I can let it slide no more. I simply can’t deflect the fact that you are losing all our friends’ respect. I’ve finally had enough and so you’ll see my face no more. You’ll have one more brunt for your jokes as I walk out the door. I take this way to say ta-ta and bid my fond adieu. Perhaps this way you’ll finally see the final joke’s on you.
Three years of fear and loathing? The world has turned surreal.
News programs sanctify our fear, our horrors the real deal.
A man once enigmatic tweets himself too clearly.
Those truths that we held evident and came to hold most dearly
were fictions in our history books. Our empire’s like the others––
built upon the backs and bones of those we call our brothers.
Who is guilty of these sins? We all are, one by one
for watching TV movies and not the smoking gun.
Our leaders, all fine actors, draw their princely wages
While madmen fire on schools, it’s children we put in cages.
America, unite as one and see the truth about you.
See what the whole world now sees that causes them to doubt you.
If you hold religion as your reason to support
this man who isn’t really all that he might purport,
what religion really is, please take the time to see:
“What you do to the least of my children, you have done to me.”
Whatever else might profit you, this is the bottom line.
God’s children aren’t all born within the borders you define.
“Give me your tired and weary, your yearning to be free.”
Must we scrape these words off the statue of Liberty?
Open your eyes. We are no longer saviors of all.
Perhaps we never were. We turn our backs and build a wall.
Only a fool waits for a poem to come to him. You have to call for it like a proper blind date, knocking on its door and seeing beauty in whatever opens it.
Take it dancing. Twirl it around the floor, letting words fly off in all directions.
Leave what flutters off alone. Someone else will pick it up and dance with it. No word is a wallflower, although some are chosen more frequently to dance. Those are the words to avoid. Do not always choose the prettiest words. In the dance of the poem, the ugliest of words acquire a charm.
Do not insist that you yourself lead. Let the poem, instead, draw you off the dance floor, out the door and down the path to deep woods where all the wild words live.
Gather them in bouquets or weave them into chains to crown your head–– that head of the poet who follows where the poems go and collects them by armfuls to share with the world.
Every conversation is a quest two people enter from opposite directions to converge at its center. The hard part of the journey commences with their greeting— an intricate endeavor not completed with first meeting.
With each new associate, we visit a new land. With each conversation, our horizons expand into lands exotic, tragic or entertaining. Perhaps enemy territory—often with no training.
Do we take umbrage with their words or enter, unprotesting, the world that they offer—experimenting, testing new mental mountains, jungles where vivid birds might call, beckoning us onwards, or do we meet a wall
that offers us no access—sealed up, rigid, cold— closed to all explorers, nearly obscured with mold? What journeys do we offer ourselves to those we meet? Do we offer easy access or promise sure defeat?
Life was designed for journeying. Daily, new vacations. Some conversations novels and others mere quotations. Some trips an experience you wouldn’t choose again— just another whistle stop on life’s commuter train.
The prompt words today are quest, umbrage, intricate and associate.
Cats love of apricity is more than just a fluke. It is a vital tendency and so we can’t rebuke our cats for lying prone a lot in any ray of sun. A cat’s in need of toasting as much as any bun. If you can imagine a Kardashian without the flash of any flashbulb, you will without a doubt be able to imagine a cat without the rays filtered through venetian blinds, or fully in the blaze of a scorching summer sun. A cat can withstand all the heat that we can give them, in summer, winter fall. And if there is no sun at all, a cat can just make do with the full attention of a surrogate like you!!!
(Enlarge all photos by clicking on any one.)
Prompt words for today are vital, rebuke, apricity and imagine.