Is to say you love me, don’t say
you’re magnanimous,
as if you have a choice, empty
pocket in a dark exchange,
slot your bodies into noisy
machines, brighten your naked
faces, light up
your cigarette heart, no longer
dead as a wolf,
our paws warm,
red tasseled tails
that raise up
a heavenly stink
Orange pumpkin, don’t just sit there. Become your destiny, a carriage! You’ve been told, naughty pumpkin. Where’s my fairy godmother?
We’re always exceeding our housecoats:
floral nightgowns trail us
down like Cinderellas with brooms
sweeping up a dust storm
Fairy godmother, will you
make me a real evening gown
while I shop for suede-soled slippers,
will you wave your star wand,
scatter fairy dust, sprinkle dreams
inside my true pink heart
I’m really not the servant
girl chained to a bedpost,
I do toss and turn restless on
a mattress (a pea troubled
slumber)
I have not reached
Heaven’s gate, I’m waiting
like Sleeping Beauty, for someone
to rouse from finger-pricked coma,
drape a caparisoned robe over
my disused body, shatter
a dreamless sleep
with stardust kisses
My imaginary fairy godmother,
old and wrinkled, a twinkly Disney smile
that’s always pleasant,
do you need a pumpkin,
I could buy one from the market
(I’ve been eyeing a silver
tiara as well), skewer the housework,
wake me up from sleep without end
Process notes: In response to Writer’s Island prompt #4: Imaginary friend. My imaginary friend is a fairy godmother. Well, not me, but the narrator. There’s a difference you know.
The freight train is leaving the station
with big parcels. Goodbye to all that.
We were crossing the dank back alley
when you leaned toward me with a
shuddering kiss. The cracked floor tiles
looked as they may disintegrate under
the trundling weight of the next heavy
vehicle. Navigate at your personal risk.
Pay attention to simple bone structure–
they’re imprinted with the hard principle,
the fleeting beauty of our human faces.
I can never ever live a day without you.
Serpent language sloughing open
skin or scraping the fur of tongues.
Words live in the ghetto of the body,
soothe like biting nails or sucking thumb.
In the morning light, I see your face’s
cragginess. I will be all that you want.
Words sleep intact in ashes, virtuous,
tenderness stoking a wild resurrection.
You get me through the day making
everything okay. More satisfying
than bed, words in even tender spades.
And all my life I’ll be with you forever.
Process notes: It’s Nicole’s prompt at We Write Poems. The lines I took from Leona Lewis singing “I Will Be”. The title is taken from the song. The lyrics are in italics. You know how it is with pop songs that keep repeating cliched lines. But it’s ok because there’s melody and rhythm. The lines are comforting. Unpretentious. So I wanted a poem that curled around those lines. A poem moults. Teaches how say the same thing over and over. Time to change my subject maybe. Or maybe not.
Time to take a sabbatical, run barefoot,
lying down, watching constellations,
a cabana on the sand, a sweet cocktail,
with a paper umbrella, a club sandwich please,
smile at the bunny cashier, free spirits kicked up
the grains in can-can, oscillating lanterns
in sea breezes, the briny breath blowing
from the Pacific Ocean, swallowing lungfuls,
feeling merciful. Tired of soliloquys, the waves’
incantations lulled us, after scuba diving, after hiding
eggs in sandcastles, after the sugar rush, after bride
gazing, after champagne drizzled over glasses
stacked like a mountain, after a piece of the tiered
wedding cake, after another swing in the hammock,
after rubbing sun tan lotion, after crunching a wafer
biscuit wedged in ice cream, after braiding my hair
with beads, after a hot air balloon became buoyant,
airborne with guests, growing desirous for happiness,
and you found a shining silver key, fitted a locket
that opened up, my face inside. Someone brought
a quiver of feathered arrows and the can-can chorus
sang, start shooting the stars. Heart-shaped balloons
floating on marshmallow clouds in the clear blue.
Process notes: The prompt word is ‘key’, from Writer’s Island. The poem makes me think of a meringue. And I really need to take a sabbatical from poeming. I’m so spacey from it. I need to float in nothingness. Forgive me if I slack in visiting for a bit.
Daniel Bedingfield, If You’re Not the One
I was in Borders yesterday when unexpectedly this song wafted over the demented helter skelter of people and books and bookshelves and book bins.
A very sweet love song about love as mission impossible. Which only goes to show, once again, what Shakespeare has said in verse,
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” — A Midsummer’s Night Dream
What is true for medieval times is still true for modern times and will be also for futuristic times. Which leads to conclude, that’s one of the reasons why humans are put on earth, to find out the meaning of true love. If it’s so easy, it isn’t true is it?
