dVerse

Tale of the Hats

lillian20 Comments

Two men, not brothers
married two women, not sisters.
One man brother to one not-sister.
If you’re counting, that’s four in all.

Christmas means a family gathering
cousins and those two not-brothers,
Bob the wee man, wicked funny
Bud a big man, comic not,

Laughter, carols, dinner done,
friends and family sit to leave.
Expectantly they wait,
tittering they anticipate.

Bob and Bud step forth all clad
coats, galoshes, mufflers too.
But to hats the family looks
as Bob and Bud, snicker not.

Bob stands small, beside big Bud.
Simultaneously they seriously say,
We’re ready to go dears
as all guffaw at what they see.

Bud looks sheepishly at Bob.
Bob’s small hat sits daintily,
perched
on top of Bud’s big head.

Bob cannot see Bud,
his eyes covered by Bud’s big hat
sitting precariously balanced
atop two pencils
protruding from Bob’s ears!

hat-157581_1280

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Mark Walters guest hosts Tuesday’s Poetics. He asks us to write humorously about something humorous from our lives. The Tale of the Hats is absolutely true! My Uncle Bob (very small head and a very fun-loving guy) and my dad, known as Bud, (a much more serious guy) exchanged hats every year at the end of our big Christmas gathering. Uncle Bob made sure he had two pencils in his coat and they’d come out looking absolutely ridiculous! No matter how many times they did this, we always laughed and laughed. Family lore now….I miss them both. 

 

 

Bowery Dame

lillian30 Comments

Hey mistah!
What are ya waitin’ for?
Lookin’ for some kix?
Just a fiver for my special K!
That’s a kisser ‘n lots more.
You a sea capn’?
Crunchin’ time
away from the missus?
C’mon and sail my ship!

They called her a total froot loop,
nuttier than a fruit cake.
She owned her corner,
struttin’ her stuff in the Big Apple.
Jack of all trix in her trade!
Arms wrapped in bangles
lucky charms danglin’,
jinglin’ through all seasons.
Frosted flakes her winter glitter,
traded for sweat beads in summer.
Garters held by safety pins,
no chex and balances in her life,
just one day to the next to the next.
Known on her unseemly block
as the My-Fair-Lady dame,
clients banged her for a few bucks.
Yelled out their cheerios
as they straightened their ties,
hopped a taxi,
and went home to their wives.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, and we’re brand name noodling! I’ve given folks three categories: candy bars, cereals, and perfumes. I’ve listed at least sixteen products in each category. Folks are to choose ONE category, and write a poem that includes at least TWO of the product names within that category. . . using them as just words in the poem. 

I’VE CHOSEN THE CEREAL LIST FOR THIS POST: Kix, Special K, Cap’n Crunch, Total, Froot Loops, Apple Jacks, Trix, Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Chex, Life, Cheerios, Fruity Pebbles, Alpha-Bits, Cocoa Puffs, Count Chocula, Harvest Crunch, and Puffed Wheat.  I used the first 12 in this poem.

Also did a poem using the Candy Bar list! Take a peak!

Love Despoiled

lillian46 Comments

Oh, Henry! You’ve caught me
be-twix and be-tween.
Passion whet by champagne,
and Kit Kat Club ambience.
Desire kindled by kindness.
Your patience to consummate
pledge your troth, to wed
and only then to bed.

Until my evening gown mishap.
Bared breast revealed,
milky way to pale mounds
meant to share in nuptial bliss.
When moonlight shafts
soften look of aging skin,
light passion’s fire,
scorch through satin linens.

But shocked I am.
Your snickers, chuckles,
leering eyes, pupils wide.
Your lust apparent, unleashed.
Tongue swiftly swipes your lips
sweat beads drip down furrowed brow.
You, most definitely,
are not my Mr. Good Bar.

Fifth Avenue class and demeanor
slipped away as if a mask.
I see you now, the real you.
As far out of possibilities
as aliens from planet Mars.
Bar or not, I sand beside this stool,
proud woman, intelligent,
genteel and steeled.

Beware sir, I am not
a pay day or pay by night
loose female, giving on demand.
I am not that kind.
I thought you were different.
And so I leave you sir,
clutching cloth to breast
virture intact.

Self respect intact,
yesterday, today,
and through many morrows.
Until some partner shall appear,
unconditional love apparent.
And we shall reveal to one another
our feelings, wishes, and regrets.
Our every view into our very souls.

2011_05_11_11_23_14

I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, and we’re brand name noodling! I’ve given folks three categories: candy bars, cereals, and perfumes. I’ve listed at least sixteen products in each category. Folks are to choose ONE category, and write a poem that includes at least TWO of the product names within that category. . . using them as just words in the poem. 

I’ve chosen to used the candy bar list: Oh, Henry!, Chuckles, Kit-Kat, Snickers, Milky Way, Mr. Goodbar, Mars Bar, 5th Avenue, Pay Day, Mounds, Twix, Charleston Chew, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, Krackle, and 3 Muskateers. I used the first 11 in this poem.

AND HERE’s MY POST ON THE CEREAL LIST!

Disillusioned

lillian27 Comments

“apologizing to the other passengers. As if car sickness was a crime.”  page 111, 5th line in 3rd paragraph of The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

“You the sand I’ve crawled across.” page 111, 5th line in 3rd stanza in Jelly Roll by Kevin Young.

Disillusioned

Apologizing to the other passengers
as if car sickness was a crime.
Commuter train to end of line
end comes everyday.
Nauseating life of dregs,
there and back and there again.
Everyday merry-go-round hell.

Cell phone glued to your ear,
apologies for my stench.
I was you until I burned,
abandoned by the man.
You happy across the aisle,
my respect tossed to winds
abracadabra, like magic dust.

Path of self-worth, weed-whacked,
lost soul like tumble weed.
Arid dunes, grain smothers grain,
insurmountable pile.
My brain is a desert skull.
Bleached-bare eye sockets,
parched blind of caring.

And you sit there like him.
You the sand I’ve crawled across.

desert-1761930_1920

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Amaya asks us to bridge the gap: take a book near your bedstand, open it to page 111; copy the 5th sentence/line in the 3rd paragraph. That is the first line of your original poem. Choose a 2nd book and do the same but, this is the last line of your poem. And she admonishes, NO CHEATING! When I saw the  line in The Kite Runner I was ready to pick a different book!  But, no cheating…so Disillusionment is what came out of this prompt.

Midnight Lovers

lillian31 Comments

Lips pressed to lips
hips to hips divinely so,
curtains flung wide.

Clouds pressed to moon,
beams flicker upon their bed.
Passion illuminated,
bodies melding move
like strobe light scene.

Muddled love,
pressed thru paroxysm
finally splays itself.
Breathing deeply,
hands clasped,
they sleep.

illustration-1948905_1920

It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. De is hosting and asks us to include the word “muddle” in our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). From the kitchen.com “Many warm weather cocktails us fresh ingredients such as herbs and fruit, and often muddling is reuired. To muddle means to press the ingredients agains the side of the glass. Muddling helps to release the flavors of the fresh ingredients so they bind with the alcohol.”

Apologia

lillian12 Comments

Wild about . . .
words in abstentia.
Inspirationless,
thought bubble eludes.
Poet?
Rhymes with blow it.
Force it.
Write it.
Do it.
Not.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Jilly’s prompt:  “Write a poem that expresses how you respond to the Wild. The Wild within; the Wild that surrounds you; the Wild that beckons and bids you to embrace it.”

A fabulous prompt by Jilly. But for some reason, writer’s block has hit, which drives me . . . . . . absolutely wild!

Tempest

lillian40 Comments

In anger walked I by the roiling sea
the taste of salt, like she, embittered me.
Rough waves didst crash against volcanic rock
and spewed their shards of foam, thus dousing me.

Her words of yesterday, I thought were talk
and thus I waited by her door to stalk.
Bereft was I, like sharpened rocks so bruised,
the knife now purged of blood and hurled to sea in shock.

IMG_9632.jpg

Written for dVerse, where today, Frank hosts, asking us to write a rubaiyat: a poem consisting of quatrains (stanzas of four lines) and, if using more than one stanza, employs a “nesting” rhyme pattern: AABA, BBCB — and each line is written in iambic pentameter.  It’s a poetry sudoku!  Also posted for Napowrimo, day 26 where the challenge is to write, appealing to the senses. Hopefully, without lookin at the photos, you can see, hear, taste and feel this poem! Photos are from our recent trip to Bermuda.

Bud’s Daughter

lillian25 Comments

I have
a morning mirror routine.
Mine for sandman’s deposits.
Eyes clear, smile appears.

There it is,
thick wavy hair.
Left side front
waving, brow-over.

Morning mirror bud,
dad’s reflection waves.
Cascading silver,
my inheritance.

IMG_9004

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where it’s Poetics Tuesday. Kim hosts and challenges us to write a poem in the first person about a body part we’ve inherited. Yep, that’s me and my waves. My dad, affectionately called Bud by his friends and relatives, had a full head of hair – beautifully silver and always wavy, till the day he died. I miss him.
PS:  did you read that last line aloud? It’s all about hair.
Also posted as off-prompt for Napowrimo Day 24.

 

Mother’s Junk Drawer

lillian22 Comments

Teeth-gnawed yellow #2 pencil stubs.
One Avon Coral Pink lipstick.
Rosary missing crucifix.
Emery board. Eleven rubber bands.
Antique roller skate key.
Three packs Juicy Fruit gum,
never opened.
One white Sunday glove.
Thirty-two S&H green stamps.
A gathering of . . . what?

Green-Stamps

Written for dVerse where I’m hosting Quadrille Monday, asking folks to write an exactly 44 word poem (sans title) that includes the word, or a form of the word, gather.  Junk drawers: quite a gathering place. Do you have one?