She leaned against the wall
sun beating down
sweat on her brow,
legs aquiver.
No doubt about it
a long hard fall
a catastrophe ’tis true,
but she’d landed on her feet.
She counted in her head
one . . .
two . . .
ah. . . . just three.
She arched her back
preened a bit
and catwalked down the lane.
Six more to go.
Includes July’s word prompt from my granddaughter, “catastrophe.”
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!
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.
Imagining herself on silver screen,
seductive in lace, she hosts a soiree.
She lures her guests, her evil goal unseen,
with delicate threads to lead them astray.
Her hourglass figure, tempting when seen,
is summoned to weave a web for her prey.
Beware, Miss Arachnid’s truly notorious.
Her venomous kiss, always victorious.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today, Frank is hosting and asks us to write an Ottava Rima. A new form for me, and quite challenging. It is actually an old Italian form of poetry that has multiple stanzas of 8 lines, in iambic pentameter (10 feet per line), with an ababababcc rhyme scheme. Frank gave us a reprieve and said one stanza was acceptable. Iambic pentameter also involves a pattern of unstressed and stressed syllables — which I find extremely difficult — so I originally went with 10 syllables per line and avoided the stress! The version you just read, went back and aimed for the iambic pentameter. I have new admiration for Will Shakespeare! Stop over and see what others have done with the form — or better yet, give it a try yourself and join us — we’re a very friendly bunch! Photo in public domain.
It was only a tree
in Mrs. Jester’s yard.
Can’t recall her,
just the skinned knees
and Lily the Spy.
I peered through apple blossoms
deciphered shape shifter clouds
ate raisins from a little box
and colored crayon clues,
until she hollered
Supper Time!
I.
sprigs of green peek out
crocus, tulips, daffodils
ready to spring forth
II.
shedding winter coats
pregnant bellies everywhere
spring phenomenon
III.
lily pad squatter
spring-like legs tense, eyes take aim
SPLAT, misjudged its mark
Harrison Hedgehog
all a dither
in a quiver,
over Patty Porcupine.
How to propose?
The poetic one,
undone,
by a prickly giggly gal.
A note, inside a balloon,
a quadrille.
Then with her own quill,
Patty will pop the question!
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. De is tending bar and asks us to giggle today 😊. Forty-four words, not including the title, that include the word “giggle.” I figure in our crazy world, it’s a good day for a silly little ditty! Photo is of Harrison Hedgehog, in public domain.
Yarnalicious.
Blueberry, ripe plum
lemony snazzle yellow
pinkorange sherbet.
I touch and squeeze,
trying to decide.
toss it up for grabs
till it falls foul
dance it quick-step
fast as you can
beach it
with head buried in sand
wad it
tear soaked tissues in hand
or
just get some!
Written for Misky’s Twiglets using the words “It’s a ball.”
As the argument unfolded
he sputtered and clanked,
like a cold radiator
cranking up the heat.
Twiglet Prompt #5: “cold radiator.” A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Maybe two. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. The idea is to create a poem or piece of prose using the twiglet as the jumping off point – the shorter the better! New twiglet prompts appear each Tuesday — join the fun!
