Parody

PARODY

My mother holds her cheeks for my inspection;
"Beautiful," I say, "just right,"
Glad that her old eyes cannot see
The lines that cross her face
Like a brand.
She is of an age with Marilyn and Liz
But without the surgeon's knife or early death
To freeze her in a frame.
I've heard that in her later years,
Elizabeth the queen froze herself with paste,
Turning a once fine face into a clown-like mask
Against whom none dare laugh.
I contemplate this now
As I paint my own beginning-to-fall face
And line my drooping lids with kohl.
I think it is no laughing matter;
Without the asp, would Cleopatra, too,
Have been this tragicomic parody of youth?

Red Fox

RED FOX

A swishing in the grass.
A small sharp face,
frozen in -- a snarl or a laugh?
Limpid golden eyes
that recognize.
A bushy beard
brushing behind,

and a bubble of joy within me
to share my place in life
with such a thing.
 

Sundays, We Pose

I'm early for the bus for a change. The conductor this week is none other than the Totalfeckineejit himself! TFE, as he is affectionately known by his acolytes, is the founder of the Poetry Bus line and editor of The Poetry Bus Magazine. As bus driver this week, he challenges us to write a fourteen line poem about one of four pictures or a song (here). Join us for a rollicking ride!

SUNDAYS, WE POSE

Sundays, we pose outside the gate,
facing the light in best dress,
three in knee pants, one in bows,
standing with our mother
and the dogs and cats du jour
or with the heavy aunts,
the card-playing sisters
who laugh throaty laughs
and smoke forbidden fags.
Dutifully, we squint
at the father husband brother
behind the black box
who waits for the light to be just right,
who will become for us a shadow on the ground.

*On the Birthday of John Keats

Finally! I've been on something of a dry spell lately, but thinking about one of my favorite poets has inspired this little piece. This is also my ticket onto the Poetry Bus, where 120 Socks has given some excellent prompts, including the one I chose -- "amber." You can read other bus poets here.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF JOHN KEATS

Some things deserve to be captured,
frozen for all of time,
made more precious by framing
in the lens of the mind.
Like fragments enclosed in amber
or beauty and truth in rhyme,
some things deserve to be captured,
frozen for all of time.


* Today is actually the anniversary of Keats' death, but I like the title, and so I'll keep it. Maybe I'll post this again next Halloween, the actual birthday of John Keats. (Thanks to my daughter with the Ph.D. in English Literature for setting me straight. I knew there was some reason I had Keats on my mind...now, I'm thinking that death is a birth of sorts, so maybe I wasn't far off!)

The Mule

THE MULE

On the way to work today,
I passed the same old man
tugging at the same old shaggy mule,
only today, a small knot of watchers
puffed in the February air.
The crust of snow still hugged the pond
and the mud was frozen hard,
except for where the mule moved forth and back
like some clumsy dancer learning his steps.

The old man tugged and tugged,
then got behind to push.
The watchers swiveled hatted heads
like spectators at a game:
Front, then back, then front again,
but the creature held his place;
only the old man moved.
From my car, I watched the watchers
turn to one another in disgust
as if they had bet on the old man to win.

I wonder, what was the point of all this fuss?
Yesterday it was the same, and so the day before.
For days, the mule has stood his frozen ground,
the old man has tugged and pushed,
and I have gawked in my slowing car
as I pass on my way to school.
Today, a knot of men stamped the ground
and blew on frozen hands and watched.

What is it they had come to see --
the man, the mule, or the match?
Tomorrow, will the masses grow?
Will the mayor come along?
Will he bring a marching band?
Will reporters flood the field with artificial light?
On the news, will the old man spit and chew
and, toothless, talk about  the "dangedest
stubborn mule he ever seen" ?
Will the watchers place their bets,
and will I pass on by --
or tomorrow, will I stop?
Will I join the frosty group
as we stamp our frozen feet
and stubbornly resist the ropes
that tug us daily in an inexorable attempt
to move us from the frozen mud?

Heaven, Earth, and Man

Heaven, Earth, and Man.

Three tablets side by side.
Or do they form a ladder each to each?
And is the top too high for me to reach?
How shall I on these tablets write my name?

Man
With who and what I am?
With what I do for them?
With the loves that I will leave?
With the losses they will grieve,
Or with fellows I forsake?

Earth
With deeds that I have done?
With the battles I have won?
With the promises I keep?
With furrows long and deep,
Or with scratches left in dust?

Heaven
With bread that has been broken?
With the prayers that I have spoken?
With the blood that has been shed?
With the rising from the dead,
Or with disappearing ink?

Three tablets side by side
Or laddered each to each.

How will I there inscribe?
How will I span the breach?

Flame

Poets United's "The Thursday Think Tank" prompt is "Fire."

Today is also my husband's and my wedding anniversary. This is my love letter to him.











FLAME


Fires don't always die; sometimes, they smolder.
Embers glow beneath a cloak of ash.

Sometimes they blaze to red-robed conflagration,
immolate, incinerate -- then sear us to the bone.

Our love, this long-lived flame, is like that.

We have smoldered, we have smoked,
have sparked --and we have burned.

We have carried the red heart of fire in our cupped hands
and fanned the coals to heat the endless night.

We surprise ourselves by burning still,
a steady glow -- eternal flame of testament to love.

Fallen

I'm doing what I do when I'm suffering from a block...I play with form. This was originally very different, but when I decided to try writing an unrhymed pantoum, it took quite a turn.

Sorry to miss the Poetry Bus this week, but I'm fresh out of inspiration.




FALLEN

Those words slipped from your lips
like a serpent.
They curled themselves around me
in sinuous caress.

Like a serpent,
they rubbed against me
in sinuous caress.
I am the rough tree bark

they rubbed. Against me,
you shed the truth like skin.
I am the rough tree bark;
you are the fall from grace.

You shed the truth like skin
that holds no living.
You are the fall from grace,
and I never saw it coming.

Like skin that holds no living,
only cold and empty promise,
and I never saw it coming
though the night was ripe with apples.

Only cold and empty promise,
they curled themselves around me.
While the night was ripe with apples,
those words slipped from your lips.

woman writes, woman rhymes, woman loves

What could be more unpopular than a poem that rhymes? Maybe a poem about happiness? After all, aren't we poetic types supposed to be full of woe? Well, sorry folks, but I just can't manufacture any angst lately. Oh, sure, there are things in my life that are difficult -- things I would change -- but in the end, I am a very happy person.

When I started thinking about the TFE's Poetry Bus challenge this week, to be still and feel what is inside us, I could only think of one line: I have loved and been loved. Have I had hardships? Yes. Loss? Absolutely, heartbreakingly. But through it all, I am blessed to be able to say that I have faith and I have loved and been loved.

For the full Poetry Bus challenge and to read the other (probably non-rhyming, maybe not-so-happy) Poetry Bus riders, go here. It's a talented crew and a rollicking ride!


deep within

a warm wind formed in rain skirts below the windowpane
stirs the curtains skips along the wall

travels gently down the hall skids across the cold stone floor blows in
through an open door to the heart-room of the home

where the woman sits alone works the pen that tells her art
thinks about the singing sound made by choirs of angels' wings

as they gather as they swing through the ether and of weaving at a loom
where the art reflects the heart of the weaver then a thought comes

fully formed from the wind where it was borne:  "Contentment deep within,"
in the poem that she forms in the music that she hears in the blessings

of the years in the people she has known in the love
she has been shown contentment on the wind skirts the curtains

rushes in mixes with her softest sigh weaves itself
into the dye of the fabric of her very happy life

Fast

FAST

Gravity pulls me
down, down;

I'm holding fast to the line.

My head is spinning
round, round;

I'm losing track of time.

The jester holds his mask
fast;

I'm looking like the fool.

My heart goes tumbling fast
past

the lord of this misrule.