wooden fences
hide backyard clothesline
white-washed dirty linen
tempest whipped
hung out to dry
Written for Misky’s Twiglets: the shorter the better.
Mugshot Poetry
The infamous Flowers Act,
high-steppers of vaudeville fame.
Two performances a day
forty-two weeks a year,
those days before the movies talked.
Flunkie acts started shows,
as rows began to fill.
Maybelle and her off-key dogs?
Surefire way to empty the house.
The best was always in-between.
Operatic divas with mighty breasts
Mr. Visser and his singing duck
acrobats performing impossible knots
and in the midst of all this prime time,
René strutted onto the stage.
Deflowered early in her career
she’d made the best of it.
Twirled baby Rosebud overhead
tapping away to the newest tune,
audience clapping with glee.
Child-stars grow as years move on,
mamas trying to keep them young.
Highlight move of the Flowers act
dancing with Rosey held overhead,
harder and harder to do with a smile.
Teenage angst festered full-bloom.
Rosie kicked higher and higher still,
belligerantly balked at precarious lifts.
Brass played louder, drummer too
covering angry words that flew.
And then . . .
The nefarious night of 1929.
Outdoor billboards proclaimed,
See Our Flowers Tap To Delight.
Spotlights cued, the band played
and curtains rose to a barren stage.
As talkies came
and vaudeville disappeared,
their billboard photo gathered dust.
Missing persons,
never found.
Advance the reel please,
to 1932, in the Big Apple.
Crowds waited raucously.
til Radio City Music Hall
flung open her art deco doors.
The organ played and the audience cheered.
High steppers fanned across the stage,
kicking their way into Billboard fame.
Including one with a rosey attitude,
because her time had finally come.
It’s Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today I’m hosting, asking folks to write a poem motivated by mugshots from the 1920s (all in public domain). Folks can use their imagination and take their post anywhere the photo inspires, as long as they include one of the photos, all of which can be found here. I did some research on vaudeville and Radio City Music Hall. Vaudeville acts were arranged as mentioned in stanza two. There actually was a very popular vaudeville act, Gus Visser and his singing duck! Radio City Music Hall did open in 1932. All else….your guess is as good as mine! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come on over and enjoy a mug!
My Dad
My dad was a quiet man. He wasn’t an exuberant fan of any pro or local sports teams. But I do remember him sitting on our fake leather hide-a-bed couch, watching Cubs games on our blonde console TV. Televisions in those days were cumbersome pieces of furniture. My mother stacked Readers Digests on top of ours.
I never saw my dad swing a baseball bat, but he wielded a mean croquet mallet. It sent many a competitor’s wooden ball sailing into our neighbor’s yard. And rather than joining the popular winter bowling leagues, he stayed late after work, one night a week, competing in a checkers club. He also loved pinochle and rummy. He taught me all these games, using very few words. And he never let me win — until I really did. I never participated in sports. But I did become a high school and college debater. I wonder how much the man of few words had to do with that?
tall oak canopy
acorn roots itself below
reaches for new heights
Haibun written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn asks us to write about sport. A haibun is a piece of prose (cannot be fiction) followed by a haiku. Generally, the haiku must be about nature.
Her World
Head cleared of cotton candy
and spider webs,
she begins to write
backwards and up-to-down.
Fairy tales
beginning at happily ever after,
famous quotations
from future generations.
Temporary lodger on Rainbow Lane,
dreamer extraordinaire.
Fuscia and chartreuse stripes
appear on sidewalks and gutter spouts.
Her wings, still nubs,
keep her anchored to earth,
impatiently waiting
for thirty-three o’clock.
Then, and only then,
will she dust herself in stars
summon her steadfast unicorn
and ride to the century’s morrow.
Fib Poetry X 3
She
said
I do
and he said
tomorrow I will.
No happily ever after.
Fib
me
tell me
you love me
never let me go.
False hopes are my down comforter.
Lie
with
me now
and we’ll live
a love of fool’s gold.
Shining ore not, craving your touch.
Just introduced to this fun little form. Fib poetry: 6 lines that follow this mathematical formula for syllables: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 6 thus totalling 20 syllables.
Bouquet Me
tulips dip and sway
seasonal ballet
scheming
upcoming soiree
daffodil foreplay
beaming
flower me I pray
utterly risque
gleaming
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today we’re asked to write a Lai: an old form of telling tales – a 9 line poem with an aabaabaab rhyme scheme where the a lines have 5 syllables and the b lines have 2 syllables. I give you a springtime tale of love! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come on over and imbibe some words!
See Me Beautiful
I stand
before the mirror of time,
body so different
from my youthful days.
Behold the origamic shapeshifter,
like that ancient Japanese artistic form.
I have been myriads of reiterations
sans pencil, paint and cutting board.
I see an intricacy of lines
deftly creased again and again
touched by life and love.
I am beauty within my folds.
Written for dVerse where today Kim asks us to write a poem to help someone facing a problem such as “finding your first wrinkle” or the “birthday blues.”
Life’s Palette
Ring me a path round the sun,
rainbow filaments in cloud tulle veil
daffodil slippers, bluebelle gloves
and dew drop rouge.
Kaleidoscope living on a color wheel.
Storm-grey ombrés to brightest white
pale pink to fuscia bold,
my patina glows.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where it’s Quadrille Monday (poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title). De is hosting and prompts us with the word “storm.” Photos of yesterday’s amazing sky in Andover, MA. Artist’s palette is outside a studio in St George, Bermuda.
Sunday’s Choice
Day of rest,
unplugged I shall be.
Sing in community,
skip down paths
accompanied
by grandchildren giggles.
Pass out smiles,
celebrate blue skies
bird chatter
and lemonade.
Today
I choose simplicity,
to live in wonder
and believe in love.
Photo taken a number of years ago at the Trapp Lodge in Vermont.
Paris Climate Accord Discord
Glaciers shed ice tears.
Care ye not for the children to come?
Listen to the sound of wailing winds
as earth reels in shock
and oceans rise in bewilderment.
Why hast you forsaken me?
Glacier melting.
Glacier actually melting.
Photos from our Alaska trip. Glaciers cracking and melting: global warming and climate change cannot be denied. June 1, 2017: the U.S., under one man’s decision, retreats from its global responsibility.
lillian the home poet 