Portrait Poem

Neighborhood eccentric
a bit askew,
dressed for the decades
always strutted her stuff.

Peered out on the sixties
in tortoise cats-eye glasses,
black beret rakishly tipped
atop henna dyed hair.

Artistic in the seventies,
she embroidered purple zigzag
on turquoise gaucho pants.
Donned gaily colored tie-dyed tops.

Now ninety-four,
spiffy on her daily walks.
White gauzy lace gloves
firmly grasp walker handlebars.

Feet move deliberately.
Frilly laced anklets,
inside patent leather
Mary Janes.

Everyone smiles
as she lights up the street,
battery operated bulbs
on her Christmas wreath hat.

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Written for Misky’s Twiglet prompt #184.

Four More Mini-Portraits

THE DREAM CATCHER
Her dreams flew by
on gossamer wings,
too high to reach some days,
even on tiptoes.

THE ELDERLY MRS HOLIDAY
Waste not want not.
She’d heard that all her life
lived by it too –
Christmas wreath upon her head
ready for the Easter parade.

THE SENATOR
With perfect pitch,
opera singer by avocation
and meteorologist by training,
he became a successful politician.
Elected term after term,
he simply changed his tune
depending on how the winds blew.

THE LIBRARIAN
She collected books.
Being of short stature
she carried a stack wherever she went,
booster seats not always available.

The Bee’s Knees

Handstand acrobat.
Mainly small time gigs,
circus tents in rural areas.
Environmentalist at heart.
Some thought her silly
giving up two weeks of pay,
assisting farmers in their fields.
Strange sight though,
legs in the air.
Pollen dusted knees
moving through acres,
attracting bees.

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Quadrille (exactly 44 words, sans title) written for dVerse where today the prompt word is “silly” – or any form of the word. Photo from Pixabay.com

Careful What You Wish For!

Another birthday?
Oh God to be young again!
Rid of the grey, the wrinkles.
To live those carefree days again.

Pimples? A crush on what’s-his-name?
High school cliques and watching Elvis gyrate?
No-Doze to pass Dr. Parkander’s killer exams?
Grad school living off hot dogs and beans?

Note to self:
Put all the candles on the cake.
Blow them out in thanksgiving
instead of blow-hard forgetfulness.

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Day 20 of National Poetry Writing Month. Today at Toads, the prompt is to write about a wish that would somehow produce something not as good as what you’d hoped for – when good wishes go bad.

Eyes in the Sky

Dr. Neubronner, ahead of his time.
Long before Orwell’s 1984
big brother watching you,
doc released his pigeons.
Cameras strapped to tiny chests
they reported fowl news.
Many photos feather-framed,
neighborhoods on display.

Generations later,
their jobs stolen
usurped by drones.
They simply gather now
where cracked corn is tossed.
And when they do take flight,
their only sign of rebellion?
An occasional shit upon your head.

 

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Written for Day 15 of National Poetry Writing Month: prompt at Toads is to explore the idea of someone’s folly: the concept of building something decorative, eccentric, extravagant. . . transcending the normal range.

Dr Julius Neubronner’s Miniature Pigeon Camera
In 1908 Dr Julius Neubronner patented a miniature pigeon camera activated by a timing mechanism. The invention brought him international notability after he presented it at international expositions in Dresden, Frankfurt and Paris in 1909–1911. Spectators in Dresden could watch the arrival of the camera-equipped carrier pigeons, and the photos were immediately developed and turned into postcards which could be purchased.  Photos from same article in the Public Domain Review. This post is adapted from a poem I originally wrote in 2016.

Hope I gave you a smile with this one! 

Johnny lives on . . .

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”  The character Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing.

You in 1963. Kellerman’s Resort.
Me in 1987, some movie theater
somewhere nondescript.
You danced. Oh how you danced!

I’ve watched, over and over.
Over thirty plus years.
Your moves,
always the same.

You in 1963,
at Kellerman’s.
Me in my living room,
watching a DVD.

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An odd poem to post on Easter Sunday….BUT I’m following Toads prompt for National Poetry Writing Month, day 12: write a poem to or about someone you love who doesn’t know you love them!
Well, I have family and my beloved of 50 years….and really can’t think of someone who doesn’t know I love them….I’m a very demonstrative person! So best I can do is the character from Dirty Dancing, Johnny Castle. LOVE his moves and have watched the DVD many many times over the years. Also love dancing to Time of My Life with my hubby….but we don’t do the lift! 

The Nuts and Bolts of It

She spoke to me
among all the junk art
hanging in that gallery.
She spoke to me.

Look at her!
Wine-opener for arms,
I do love Chardonnay.
Sieved-ladle-top face,
my emotions do flow.
Sunflower heart,
that’s Pollyanna me.
Beaded, feathered earring-skirt,
like miniature dream catchers
always at hand.
Glued on wire, forever smiles.
Whimsical socks with moving feet,
will gladly tap dance, to any beat.

Forget all the photos
down through the ages.
I knew it then, and I know it now.
She’s definitely me
and that’s why I bought her.

So I’m thinking this morning
sitting staring at her,
what are we made of
and who really are we?

Haphazardly or carefully,
crazily cobbled together?
Maybe that’s it then . . .
and she smiles down at me.
We’re all cobbled together.
We’re all just junk,
junk art at heart.

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Day 3 of NaPoWriMo, national poetry month, where the challenge is to write a poem every day in April!  Today’s prompt from Imaginary Garden with Toads deals with existentialism, as in anything to do with “what is the meaning of life?” What are we really all about? 
Photo of  junk art bought in Bermuda a number of years ago. She hangs in my study where I see her every day – and she makes me smile.

After watching the news . . .

if I put on lacy anklets
chalk hopscotch on my sidewalk
tie these grey locks into pigtails
and read Golden Books,
will everything be fun again?

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Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. I’m “tending the pub today” and look forward to reading all the posts. Photo taken a few weeks ago at the Corvette Diner in San Diego’s Liberty Station – our waitress’ feet!

Childhood Ditty

Skiddely-do, I see you.
Clippity-clop, clompity-clomp,
tromping loudly as we romp.

Skiddely-do, join me too.
Spinning spinning like a top
round and round we never stop.

Skiddely-do, crouch down low.
Creepity-creep, oh so slow.
Skiddely-do is so much fun
until we’re all, skiddely-done.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn asks us to write using alliteration (repetition of the same sound in the beginning of one or more words in a line of poetry).  It strikes me that young childrens’ games and songs often have alliteration, which makes them “catchy”, easy to memorize and repeat…and when they also include an action (clapping hands; stomping feet; creeping crawling) they’re even more fun!  I’m only sorry my grand daughter is not with us in San Diego to make up a tune to this little ditty.  Click HERE to listen when she put a tune to a previous poem I wrote a few years ago. Perhaps you can read this new poem aloud and come up with a tune yourself! 🙂

It’s Surreal!

Ear worm.
1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
Tickling incessant tune.
Words over-and-over-
and over-and-over.
Go in and out the windows . . .

1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
Shut off the radio.
Cadence that kicks
rhyme that sticks.
Like ear muffs close exits
on cold winter days.

1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
I don’t even own a car
but it’s driving
through my ear canal.
Drive it to Panama instead,
out through those locks.

Out of my ear drums.
Quit base thumping,
1-877-Kars-for-
oh just snare it!
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Where are you, Aretha?

Lift the needle,
Just put on the B side,
PLEASE!

Click on the video and listen to it for a bit. I dare you. Beware the ear worm!

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Linda asks us to explore surrealism in poetry. She tells us surrealism in poetry is “the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations.” To me, this sounds a lot like stream-of-consciousnes writing….which is what’s happening in this poem. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!