Grandma Brown to my mother’s mother, can’t say i hated ya didn’t know ya well enough for that can’t say i loved ya neither knew ya was a Brown rat can say i resented ya ‘cause ya wedged ya bourgeois self ‘tween me and my May Queen. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
Emerald Ring She must have been a flapper, the woman who first owned my emerald ring. Swing, sing, sling. I’ll bet she did all these kinds of things. The roaring 20’s, the age of jazz. For the first time in history, women were what they wore rather than the children they bore. I wish I’d known her, my parallel friend. Sipping champagne cocktails, together we’d have spread our wings. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
Wallpapering with my Father Wallpapering with my Father Coming through Ellis Island with all the rest you made good across the sea, to the New World of promise; you, the lanky, blue-eyed immigrant from Nord Holland with the shock of Viking hair – my father’s father, like him a man of few words, there to become part of the American Dream that was within reach because of your saleable skills. That Sunday was quiet with the heavy, high-pitched whir of locusts heralding summer in upstate New York – long, languorous days wasting teenager time under the apple trees. At first I was sulky when I showed up for the job. My father had dressed for the occasion in spotless white as if he were about to go sailing on his yacht. Separating us, seven roles of silkscreened ladies waving Oriental fans. Our tools, your tools, carefully assembled; a greying stepladder, the razor-sharp knife, a boar-bristled brush. Solid like the homeland, built to last like your impossible dream. Unusually impatient, my father barked orders that I couldn’t fulfil: run, fetch, hold the paper straight. Could your secrets not be passed on? My tears spattered in the chlorinated pool. Years later, when you’d already passed on, I put myself to the test; a tiny kitchen wall and a complicated, half-drop vertical match. I preened long-distance. Dad, dreams come true. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
Red Dress RED DRESS The color of the dress was Fire Engine Red, the color associated with Valentine’s Day cards, lacy white hearts pierced by Cupid’s arrows. Giraffes pranced round the hem; with nothing better to do than my grandmother’s bidding: dancing in circles like painted horses on a merry-go-round, the sort you can just get on and ride forever – over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house through the autumn leaves piled high into racetracks in the backyard. Who can run fastest, jump highest, come first? The color of the dress was Devil’s Red, the color associated with Satan, fallen angel with a pitchfork for a tail. Neither Satan nor Cupid practiced their piano, but I did. Each morning mechanical fingers gave voice to another prideful, grand-matriarchal gift. The dress and the piano, how did I miss the clues? Even Red Riding Hood knew wolves wore her grandmother’s shoes. What child is this, who fails to adore the gold, frankincense, and myrrh laid at her feet? Come on, kid, we all know this ain’t no one way street. The giraffes had two rivals: prettier, more lively, less sweet. But at Sibley’s Department store on that sweaty summer’s day, granny would have her way. The color of the dress was Blood Red the color associated with needles, transfusions, debilitating intestinal bleeds. Dancing in circles, those giraffes could never win and neither could I, from that first day at school, a giraffe appliquéd where my heart should have been. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
The Star Spangled Spanner The Star Spangled Spanner O! say can you see, by the dawn’s early light… Bored, the crowd roared for they’d been taught to believe that songs never die. But they were wrong, at least about that, for halfway through the refrain the fat lady choked and after the pause that became a national cause, their song started to go all wrong. Surely my retch would fetch common sense in the hearts of my fellow men. But that was naive and it didn’t take long before that Star-Spangled Banner no longer waived o’er the Land of the free, and home of the brave. The other day, I called my mother and asked her if she wanted to go shopping at the mall. “No thanks,” she said. “I’ve had enough.” Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
Succeed Succeed They gush and drool like perfect fools picking the bones of my poetry dry. Inciteful precision gets their goat. Instead, they want to emote over bronzed crocodile tears. Think out-of-the-box? What a wicked little fox to commit such a heinous crime. Stick to the form and shovel that norm. We should all know by now, that to suck is to succeed. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
Agree I do not see why I should agree with anyone else but me. It’s a chance that I take to break out of this crate in which, I’ve hidden for too many years. Jump you declare? How do you dare? This time, I flat out, refuse. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
what’s wrong with my poetry What’s wrong with my poetry? I ask, again, after class. While others conjure theatrical images, All I do is to sound crass. I realise I avoid emotions, View life through squeaky clean glass. But they wallow in manufactured melancholy and blow it out their ass. So, what does it take to get the gold star? The coveted pat on the head? I suppose I ought not to give a shit. But, still, I wonder a bit. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
Cats of Many Colours CATS OF MANY COLOURS Marmalade kitten pie in my sky, you’re the apple of this little girl’s eye. Marmalade kitten I’ll hold you tight. Come on let’s go home, right? Tommy Oyster my middle man I couldn’t be a bigger fan. Tommy Oyster softest grey and white Formal dress? Let’s make it a night. Dead cat the colour of ebony Why won’t my feelings flow? Dead cat Is it a felony? At my age, I can’t let you go Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...
Wicked Witch of A’dam – Astro Poetry Wicked Witch of Amsterdam 7 May 1944 Persevering, dependable, relaxed, and calm; Patient and steady, Stuck in a rut. ___ Prizes wit and cunning and trickery; Clever with finances. Adores reading. ___ Silver-tongued scattered thoughts The mind of a thief. Knows everyone, gets around. ___ There’s no place like home. Nostalgic and sentimental, Overly protective parent. ___ Flirtatious; hopeless romantic. A true performer, Drama for drama’s sake. ___ Warm and generous with employees, Shines through daily work. Adores rich food, has back problems. ___ Equal relationships, Requires tactful, diplomatic partner. Avoids divorce at all costs. ___ Tempts fate; deep interactions. Sex is transformational, Intense passion, transgender. ___ Known as frank, outspoken, as well as blunt. Adventurous; ambitious. Vocal on career issues. ___ Projects authority, grooms professional image. Craves achievement, Reputation is paramount. ___ Ambitious networking, Weird, intellectual friends. Supports causes and ideas, won’t follow through. ___ Dreams of being a poet or musician, Imaginative inner life. Dwells on past sorrows. ___ Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...