...quiet, about a lot of things...
Monday, October 06, 2008
Poetry experiment
A Very strange workshop task indeed. Rhyme with preface......also rhyme was supposed to be subtle... but that was a little too much for me........so blatant it is. I am so blatant!
Why the Sky Is Blue and Other Dangerous Questions
The sky moves by, in fits and sputters
of grey or purple or coal miner black.
Darker for emphasis, stars as beacons.
The sky moves constantly with blue
just reflection of water. What then,
reflects in the black, I wonder?
The coal miners despair? And who supplies
the claret,murky merlot purple? Which
king dips his head in surrender?
I have met the grey before,as he mocks stars.
Those brave beacons,needing only contrast to shine.
Grey;a dull flat endless nowhere,in particular.
....
She never did believe
curiosity was conceived
to kill that cat.She disagreed
with it's very premise from the get.
To be free,released, yes, to let
go is danger fraught and yet
how thrilling! She could only dream;
to cross that path, to forge that stream
of thought and wish and will supreme.
To leave this plane of mortal piss
and cough and spew and toil, this.
Just cut it loose, with good bye kiss.
To venture where she did not know.
what lurks ahead? what troubles grow?
She'd gladly trade this earthly show
toss all grey tasks she'd known so far
to gamble on some distant star,
to throw the dice, or dodge the car.
She never did agree the cat did more
than take an odds on bet, before
banking on his lives in store.
Hers much more, a deadly game,
though it may appear the same
that damned cat, deserves the blame.
Why the Sky Is Blue and Other Dangerous Questions
The sky moves by, in fits and sputters
of grey or purple or coal miner black.
Darker for emphasis, stars as beacons.
The sky moves constantly with blue
just reflection of water. What then,
reflects in the black, I wonder?
The coal miners despair? And who supplies
the claret,murky merlot purple? Which
king dips his head in surrender?
I have met the grey before,as he mocks stars.
Those brave beacons,needing only contrast to shine.
Grey;a dull flat endless nowhere,in particular.
....
She never did believe
curiosity was conceived
to kill that cat.She disagreed
with it's very premise from the get.
To be free,released, yes, to let
go is danger fraught and yet
how thrilling! She could only dream;
to cross that path, to forge that stream
of thought and wish and will supreme.
To leave this plane of mortal piss
and cough and spew and toil, this.
Just cut it loose, with good bye kiss.
To venture where she did not know.
what lurks ahead? what troubles grow?
She'd gladly trade this earthly show
toss all grey tasks she'd known so far
to gamble on some distant star,
to throw the dice, or dodge the car.
She never did agree the cat did more
than take an odds on bet, before
banking on his lives in store.
Hers much more, a deadly game,
though it may appear the same
that damned cat, deserves the blame.
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Monday, September 22, 2008
poetry class poem
long wide and dirty
the aisle to the
little boys underwear
department
winds past purple
paisley pantsuits
and pink cashmere
twin sets. he sees
her eyes as she
tries not to look.
But she does.
She cups his
damp and fleshy
hand in hers.
instead of
turning left
she steers him right
past the bone
and ivory breast
balloons..hadn't he
once called them that?
when he was much younger..
Lacy and deflated
they scare him now.
Hollow and haunting
they Make him feel
lost and empty.
he looks nowhere but down.
Feet on the wide long isle.
he is a foreign lad
in a foreign land.
he lets her lead him blindly
past what he does not yet fathom
he wants, to the only department
he has ever known.
the place of
6 pairs to a package,
now marked 50% off.
tucked forgotten in
the corner of
the half dressed
women and the broken
men.
the aisle to the
little boys underwear
department
winds past purple
paisley pantsuits
and pink cashmere
twin sets. he sees
her eyes as she
tries not to look.
But she does.
She cups his
damp and fleshy
hand in hers.
instead of
turning left
she steers him right
past the bone
and ivory breast
balloons..hadn't he
once called them that?
when he was much younger..
Lacy and deflated
they scare him now.
Hollow and haunting
they Make him feel
lost and empty.
he looks nowhere but down.
Feet on the wide long isle.
he is a foreign lad
in a foreign land.
he lets her lead him blindly
past what he does not yet fathom
he wants, to the only department
he has ever known.
the place of
6 pairs to a package,
now marked 50% off.
tucked forgotten in
the corner of
the half dressed
women and the broken
men.
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Friday, February 29, 2008
Eat Your Heart Out
Find inspiration where you must.
Eat Your Heart Out
It wasn't the first.
With no way of knowing
if it was the last.
This Friday he did not
return home.
She ate a piece
of coconut cream pie,
thinking only of
what he was eating.
She could not taste it.
Was it sugar or salt?
The second piece was
overkill, she had to
admit. But the
knife went in anyway.
A bold act of aggression.
The second piece was
for the fucking.
For, why the fucking
hell not?
The third piece was
merely for her tongue.
To meet a touch.
To Yield. Meant only
to keep her mouth full.
Whipped cream muffling
the mourning.
Sweet and alone.
wlf 9:00pm
Eat Your Heart Out
It wasn't the first.
With no way of knowing
if it was the last.
This Friday he did not
return home.
She ate a piece
of coconut cream pie,
thinking only of
what he was eating.
She could not taste it.
Was it sugar or salt?
The second piece was
overkill, she had to
admit. But the
knife went in anyway.
A bold act of aggression.
The second piece was
for the fucking.
For, why the fucking
hell not?
The third piece was
merely for her tongue.
To meet a touch.
To Yield. Meant only
to keep her mouth full.
Whipped cream muffling
the mourning.
Sweet and alone.
wlf 9:00pm
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Friday, December 07, 2007
A Poem
At last a poem. Not much of one...but something on this page.
The snow is coming. The white storm. The peaceful cold. I will know I am alive. My breath will hang in the air.
PATTY CAKE
When you give a dog a bone,
at first he will love you.
He may dance on cue,sit or
spin. You will be magic. But,
the time will come. It must.
When you give that dog his bone,
he will seem changed. As if
suddenly he knows,you could have
given him meat, instead.
wlf 9:54
The snow is coming. The white storm. The peaceful cold. I will know I am alive. My breath will hang in the air.
PATTY CAKE
When you give a dog a bone,
at first he will love you.
He may dance on cue,sit or
spin. You will be magic. But,
the time will come. It must.
When you give that dog his bone,
he will seem changed. As if
suddenly he knows,you could have
given him meat, instead.
wlf 9:54
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Falling In Love Again
I'm having a bit of a spurned lover moment, in regards to new Poetry sites. I have really mourned Poetry Thursday's departure. I knew it was the best thing for both of us. I could feel the weight of the site getting heavy on it mistresses. And like a good lover, I let it go, sweetly into the night.
But since it's leaving, I have felt my heart harden a bit. I have tried to wise myself to the ways of this nether word we call the blogspere.I remind myself that Dumbo never needed that damned magic feather to fly in the first place.
Yet, Thursdays come, and I am compelled to read and write Poetry. I catch the scent of poetry in the air and turn, hoping to see all that IT meant to me, back. Smiling.
So when I heard of this new beginning, I decided that while "the first cut is the deepest, I'd try to love"..and write..again...
As with any new lover, some things are the same...but oh, how the differences make my breath catch, make my cheeks flush, make my mind go crazy in the possibility that THIS one may be THE one....
Check out their first prompt....impressive!
I wish I were close
To you as the wet skirt of
A salt girl to her body.
I think of you always.
'Salt girls' boil seawater down for the salt.
OK..Here goes..
Always was
Was it just yesterday,the first
time I let you?(No, that is a lie.)
I WILLED you to unbutton my blouse.
I dared you,with one look,to slide
your hand up.Damn the torpedo's!
Damn those good girl brittle rules.
"Break me! Like my shell makes
no difference at all. Open me
like a egg, crack me,wide."
Such a thin space
veiled with skin
between you and I.
So,it was, me waiting for
you,for your fingers to come.
For you, to pick that button.
wlf 9:15
Thanks and congrats to the proud parents on the birth of their new site.. She's a beauty...and thanks to Deb of Stoney Moss for the directions.
But since it's leaving, I have felt my heart harden a bit. I have tried to wise myself to the ways of this nether word we call the blogspere.I remind myself that Dumbo never needed that damned magic feather to fly in the first place.
Yet, Thursdays come, and I am compelled to read and write Poetry. I catch the scent of poetry in the air and turn, hoping to see all that IT meant to me, back. Smiling.
So when I heard of this new beginning, I decided that while "the first cut is the deepest, I'd try to love"..and write..again...
As with any new lover, some things are the same...but oh, how the differences make my breath catch, make my cheeks flush, make my mind go crazy in the possibility that THIS one may be THE one....
Check out their first prompt....impressive!
I wish I were close
To you as the wet skirt of
A salt girl to her body.
I think of you always.
'Salt girls' boil seawater down for the salt.
OK..Here goes..
Always was
Was it just yesterday,the first
time I let you?(No, that is a lie.)
I WILLED you to unbutton my blouse.
I dared you,with one look,to slide
your hand up.Damn the torpedo's!
Damn those good girl brittle rules.
"Break me! Like my shell makes
no difference at all. Open me
like a egg, crack me,wide."
Such a thin space
veiled with skin
between you and I.
So,it was, me waiting for
you,for your fingers to come.
For you, to pick that button.
wlf 9:15
Thanks and congrats to the proud parents on the birth of their new site.. She's a beauty...and thanks to Deb of Stoney Moss for the directions.
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Begin at the End, Then Proceed...for Poetry Thursday
This is the very first poem I ever posted for Poetry Thursday. So I will use it for the excercise/ totally optional prompt today. That circle thing again.
It was a wildly weird yet thrilling feeling waaaay back then.. I hadn't written poetry for years, and the idea of casting it to the wind, was well, at the very least, provocative! But, soon, I settled in to the place PT carved for me, the safe small chair that was always waiting for me in the corner behind Joyce and Kay.
I've become very comfortable here..and haven't once worried again about confessing into darkness. Poetry Thursday has become my wailing wall..all my poems folded in on them selves, stuffed into cracks, offered as prayer. Evidence, really of this life I am crafting, these choices I am making, and these truths I am telling.
I think God has been pleased, by this tangent, this tiny concentrated effort, this little belief in creation. Perhaps he came here also, to rest a bit and hide from the lunatics taking over the asylum....Maybe that's why I could hear him whispering in my ear.
Lineage
too much
her mothers
daughter, i fear.
yet, still
She shows
much improvement, yes?
i have
become a
good brood mare.
leaving the
next generation
this bettering of
my self.
She will
go further than
i ever did.
wlf 8:16
Go on now, trot on over to Poetry Thursday...go on now, GIT!
It was a wildly weird yet thrilling feeling waaaay back then.. I hadn't written poetry for years, and the idea of casting it to the wind, was well, at the very least, provocative! But, soon, I settled in to the place PT carved for me, the safe small chair that was always waiting for me in the corner behind Joyce and Kay.
I've become very comfortable here..and haven't once worried again about confessing into darkness. Poetry Thursday has become my wailing wall..all my poems folded in on them selves, stuffed into cracks, offered as prayer. Evidence, really of this life I am crafting, these choices I am making, and these truths I am telling.
I think God has been pleased, by this tangent, this tiny concentrated effort, this little belief in creation. Perhaps he came here also, to rest a bit and hide from the lunatics taking over the asylum....Maybe that's why I could hear him whispering in my ear.
Lineage
too much
her mothers
daughter, i fear.
yet, still
She shows
much improvement, yes?
i have
become a
good brood mare.
leaving the
next generation
this bettering of
my self.
She will
go further than
i ever did.
wlf 8:16
Go on now, trot on over to Poetry Thursday...go on now, GIT!
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
poetry workshop
songbird
a bird is not
a wordy beast
with vowels upon
its beak.
it struggles not
to find a feeble
apology or
credible excuse
to stay in bed.
it only pumps
it's wings against
thick air.
only beats it's
heart to bursting.
it merely stays afloat,
glides to rest, and points
itself toward home.
it asks no one
in particular
for permission
to fly.
wendy
a bird is not
a wordy beast
with vowels upon
its beak.
it struggles not
to find a feeble
apology or
credible excuse
to stay in bed.
it only pumps
it's wings against
thick air.
only beats it's
heart to bursting.
it merely stays afloat,
glides to rest, and points
itself toward home.
it asks no one
in particular
for permission
to fly.
wendy
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Broken Mirrors for Poetry Thursday
At 6:30 AM my daughter rushed into my room, where I was lying in that vulnerable space between dream and real..and yelled she had broken the right rear view mirror of her car. She in a newly licensed driver and was nearly hysterical. I told her not to worry, and reassured her that it was indeed a tricky angle out of our garage. I sent her on her way.
As I drove my youngest to school, twenty minutes later, I noticed the broken mirror glass swept to the side of my driveway. Five minutes later, I came really close, leaving rubber close, to an accident myself. A fender bender caused by two car loads of teenage boys. I thanked God that I had been driving this time, and not my daughter.
The day was not looking good.
And it just got worse. Poetry Thursday is calling it quits. Liz and Dana have taken this fine venture from seed to sprawling thicket..and I am guessing they need to prune a bit..so they can find the doors back to their own lives. I am happy to clear the way for them. They deserve a soft landing and an easy exit. I will miss this project so much....I can't tell you.
So thank you Dana and Liz.This doesn't seem sufficient. I need to tell you that because of you, I am writing poetry again. Because of you I am, just this very evening, starting to participate in a "REAL HUMAN" poetry workshop...actual people with eyes and ears and faces..not just words and thoughts and air. I am not sure that they will have the nurturing rules that you girls did. It may be brutal. It might be intimidating. I know it will not feel as safe as this whorl of the time space continuum has. It may be sharp and thorny.
I know I will feel hot. I know I will blush and stutter. I know I will want to cry. I will have to push myself out of my car.
You see, this is the real me...the QUIET me. The one you would never notice.
But it's time, girls, for all of us. It's time to leave the nest and leap. Notice I did not say fly...because when you first try...you fall..plunge really into the unknown. You go on faith and an indescribable quest to grow and find more and love more and write more.
Dear Dana and Liz, you did this for me. I will forever remember you and thank you profoundly, whenever I learn to fly.
Last Song
At the start
you must
acknowledge
the finish
though the ground
between here
and there seems
vast, and
easily conquered.
You must look
the end in
it's eye.
Be respectful.
Choose to be led,
not chased
towards it.
Pray that
in you greatest
moment of joy
you will
turn around
simply
to find a
soft hand
closing
and a small
breath slowly
stilled.
merely
an instant
shorter
than you
had planned.
wlf
I'm going to bring my flowers of thanks over to Poetry Thursday....
As I drove my youngest to school, twenty minutes later, I noticed the broken mirror glass swept to the side of my driveway. Five minutes later, I came really close, leaving rubber close, to an accident myself. A fender bender caused by two car loads of teenage boys. I thanked God that I had been driving this time, and not my daughter.
The day was not looking good.
And it just got worse. Poetry Thursday is calling it quits. Liz and Dana have taken this fine venture from seed to sprawling thicket..and I am guessing they need to prune a bit..so they can find the doors back to their own lives. I am happy to clear the way for them. They deserve a soft landing and an easy exit. I will miss this project so much....I can't tell you.
So thank you Dana and Liz.This doesn't seem sufficient. I need to tell you that because of you, I am writing poetry again. Because of you I am, just this very evening, starting to participate in a "REAL HUMAN" poetry workshop...actual people with eyes and ears and faces..not just words and thoughts and air. I am not sure that they will have the nurturing rules that you girls did. It may be brutal. It might be intimidating. I know it will not feel as safe as this whorl of the time space continuum has. It may be sharp and thorny.
I know I will feel hot. I know I will blush and stutter. I know I will want to cry. I will have to push myself out of my car.
You see, this is the real me...the QUIET me. The one you would never notice.
But it's time, girls, for all of us. It's time to leave the nest and leap. Notice I did not say fly...because when you first try...you fall..plunge really into the unknown. You go on faith and an indescribable quest to grow and find more and love more and write more.
Dear Dana and Liz, you did this for me. I will forever remember you and thank you profoundly, whenever I learn to fly.
Last Song
At the start
you must
acknowledge
the finish
though the ground
between here
and there seems
vast, and
easily conquered.
You must look
the end in
it's eye.
Be respectful.
Choose to be led,
not chased
towards it.
Pray that
in you greatest
moment of joy
you will
turn around
simply
to find a
soft hand
closing
and a small
breath slowly
stilled.
merely
an instant
shorter
than you
had planned.
wlf
I'm going to bring my flowers of thanks over to Poetry Thursday....
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Untied...for Poetry Thursday
I'm feeling especially free this fine morning!! I'd give each and every one of you a big kiss.
Untied
Did you learn to tie
bows with bunny ears?
small fingers
crude loops
turned just so
tugged just right
making
magic knots
freeing you from
big hands taking
control of your feet
being told
to hold still.
I have remained
that stubborn child
with knot
upon knot
wanting not
knowing not
I have knelt
holding myself still
for years
in contorted
crouches of effort.
To tie and undo
what I have tried
so hard to secure.
I have laced it,
closed it so tight
safely binding it
for fear
of tripping.
or falling.
or feeling
unsteady on
unbalanced
feet.
But now I want to move.
Now I want to kick
off my shoes and
never ever
stoop again.
If I fall,
I fall.
I will tumble
loose and alive.
Just let me go down
laughing,
unafraid
and untied.
wlf 10:44am
It's poetry thursday.. Come on people...Move it...I HAVE NOT GOT ALL DAY!!
Untied
Did you learn to tie
bows with bunny ears?
small fingers
crude loops
turned just so
tugged just right
making
magic knots
freeing you from
big hands taking
control of your feet
being told
to hold still.
I have remained
that stubborn child
with knot
upon knot
wanting not
knowing not
I have knelt
holding myself still
for years
in contorted
crouches of effort.
To tie and undo
what I have tried
so hard to secure.
I have laced it,
closed it so tight
safely binding it
for fear
of tripping.
or falling.
or feeling
unsteady on
unbalanced
feet.
But now I want to move.
Now I want to kick
off my shoes and
never ever
stoop again.
If I fall,
I fall.
I will tumble
loose and alive.
Just let me go down
laughing,
unafraid
and untied.
wlf 10:44am
It's poetry thursday.. Come on people...Move it...I HAVE NOT GOT ALL DAY!!
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Magnolia Plantation for Poetry Thursday
Touring a small part...ok, a very microscopic part of the south, on vacation was fascinating for me. There is a sinister graciousness to the cities I visited.
The people are certainly more graceful, more lyric than I. But a beautiful lace doily or a wonderful berry souffle can only distract, not hide.
Our tour guide at the Magnolia Plantation, spoke in barely veiled disgust of the union soldiers who burn the plantation house to the ground. It was a shame to lose all that history. True enough. But humans are more valuable than Chippendale furniture, and bone china.
The tram guide said very little about the civil war. Just this. That her grandmother, a very gentile and proper southern woman, only referred to that time as " the unseemly and distasteful unpleasantness with those others."
We drove by the slave quarters..and witnessed the acres and acres of trenches dug by the slaves to irrigate and drain the rice fields. Rice gave slaves enough energy to work to build the many mansions and prosperous cities. Life was considered a fringe benefit for them. While I suppose, wealth was considered a right for others.
Still, through all of the human treachery and turmoil, nature hangs simply unchecked, everywhere. Thriving in the moist air, fed by the wind. Carried by the rivers,to the great untouchables, the unknowables..where humans are but a brief distraction.
Magnolia Plantation
My eyes close.
It is Eden.
So many scents
mixing to form
Ambrosia
Where all
gives all
Surrendering
self to be
here and part
of this.
A sum better
than it's parts.
The breeze
carries moss
to trees
adorning creation
with ribbons
wrapping beauty
in finishing detail.
My eyes open.
A tomb where lays
the first master
of this land,
though I am unsure
who made him so.
A good steward
it seems,
if measured by
one yardstick.
Gardens still
are ripe with
more abundant
fullness than
these banks
can contain.
This tomb,
a white mans tomb,
bears round granite
cherubs who look
serenly skyward .
Yet one is
missing his nose.
Shot clean off
by a soldier
with gun in one hand
and torch in another.
Taken in passing
I imagine,
as he stormed
up soft garden paths
to burn at
seats of power.
To pile new bones
on the old bones.
I fear he felt
no emancipation
coming that moist night.
He was just
a messenger.
There to tell
of a new
masta in town.
As wild winds rage
fueled by flames below,
the moss gently fled
from tree to tree.
To find a place
of peace high
in oaks
untouched
unchanged
and unafraid.
wlf
Off to Poetry Thursday.....
The people are certainly more graceful, more lyric than I. But a beautiful lace doily or a wonderful berry souffle can only distract, not hide.
Our tour guide at the Magnolia Plantation, spoke in barely veiled disgust of the union soldiers who burn the plantation house to the ground. It was a shame to lose all that history. True enough. But humans are more valuable than Chippendale furniture, and bone china.
The tram guide said very little about the civil war. Just this. That her grandmother, a very gentile and proper southern woman, only referred to that time as " the unseemly and distasteful unpleasantness with those others."
We drove by the slave quarters..and witnessed the acres and acres of trenches dug by the slaves to irrigate and drain the rice fields. Rice gave slaves enough energy to work to build the many mansions and prosperous cities. Life was considered a fringe benefit for them. While I suppose, wealth was considered a right for others.
Still, through all of the human treachery and turmoil, nature hangs simply unchecked, everywhere. Thriving in the moist air, fed by the wind. Carried by the rivers,to the great untouchables, the unknowables..where humans are but a brief distraction.
Magnolia Plantation
My eyes close.
It is Eden.
So many scents
mixing to form
Ambrosia
Where all
gives all
Surrendering
self to be
here and part
of this.
A sum better
than it's parts.
The breeze
carries moss
to trees
adorning creation
with ribbons
wrapping beauty
in finishing detail.
My eyes open.
A tomb where lays
the first master
of this land,
though I am unsure
who made him so.
A good steward
it seems,
if measured by
one yardstick.
Gardens still
are ripe with
more abundant
fullness than
these banks
can contain.
This tomb,
a white mans tomb,
bears round granite
cherubs who look
serenly skyward .
Yet one is
missing his nose.
Shot clean off
by a soldier
with gun in one hand
and torch in another.
Taken in passing
I imagine,
as he stormed
up soft garden paths
to burn at
seats of power.
To pile new bones
on the old bones.
I fear he felt
no emancipation
coming that moist night.
He was just
a messenger.
There to tell
of a new
masta in town.
As wild winds rage
fueled by flames below,
the moss gently fled
from tree to tree.
To find a place
of peace high
in oaks
untouched
unchanged
and unafraid.
wlf
Off to Poetry Thursday.....
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, July 12, 2007
People Watchin.....for Poetry Thursday....
Beach resorts make for very interesting people watching. I am fascinated by people bodies and their attitudes about them. Far more women cover themselves. Men seem to care a little less about who is looking at what. Men's swimwear is functional. Women's swimwear is delusional. There. I said it. The normal woman, can not pull off what the designers give us to wear. My days of bikinis are over.
Other women...with bodies of all different shapes and sizes, must feel differently. This really intrigues me. Not in a judgemental catty way. In a envious way. I wonder what I am lacking, when I feel the need to cover every flaw I have. Believe me if I could have walked backwards into the ocean and pool without tripping...and ending up spread eagle on the sand....I would have. I am constantly tugging, shielding and draping.
Others strut. Uncovered. Un saronged. Unashamed. I watch them walk from behind my sunglasses and admire them in their bold imperfection. They are blooming like brilliant island flowers, while I am caught in my neurotic narcissistic self grooming cycle. Constantly pruning the new growth. Constantly picking at bumps that may have become buds, that may have been beauty.
MODEST BONDAGE
It is so hot,even threads
are a burden. My skin yearns
to be free of it's slight cage.
The smallest tug of my fingers
would undo this cleated slavery.
I could slip the knot, escape
this thin fortress. My hands
are so close, I can feel
their heat on my neck.
wlf
Well, Happy Poetry Thursday everyone!
Other women...with bodies of all different shapes and sizes, must feel differently. This really intrigues me. Not in a judgemental catty way. In a envious way. I wonder what I am lacking, when I feel the need to cover every flaw I have. Believe me if I could have walked backwards into the ocean and pool without tripping...and ending up spread eagle on the sand....I would have. I am constantly tugging, shielding and draping.
Others strut. Uncovered. Un saronged. Unashamed. I watch them walk from behind my sunglasses and admire them in their bold imperfection. They are blooming like brilliant island flowers, while I am caught in my neurotic narcissistic self grooming cycle. Constantly pruning the new growth. Constantly picking at bumps that may have become buds, that may have been beauty.
MODEST BONDAGE
It is so hot,even threads
are a burden. My skin yearns
to be free of it's slight cage.
The smallest tug of my fingers
would undo this cleated slavery.
I could slip the knot, escape
this thin fortress. My hands
are so close, I can feel
their heat on my neck.
wlf
Well, Happy Poetry Thursday everyone!
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Padded Poetry
Edited to include:
Thanks to Neil for "letting me' win his little contest. For those who are here for the first time....Um...Nice to meet you. Any guesses, other than my keen powers of observation, to why I may have won this particular contest??? Just wondering.....
Feel free to stay awhile and look around.
So, OK.. I have lost my mind. But this little number made me giddy this afternoon.
I spent the morning having a root canal...and the evening getting ready for a trip to the Bahamas with Michael.
Something about this bra made me feel young again. I needed that today..as my teeth continue to betray me. As for the picture of the bra...I blame the pain killers, plus I remember wearing less to the beach in the good ole days.
Wrappings
My mama
will say
Be careful
what I'm
asking for.
I may
just get it.
Fastening
the hooks
I gaze in
the mirror
at lace ready
to reckless.
No doubt.
The time
for asking
is over.
wlf
Hope everyone has a nice Poetry Thursday. I'm going there now..Don't rush me..Keep your shirt on.....
Thanks to Neil for "letting me' win his little contest. For those who are here for the first time....Um...Nice to meet you. Any guesses, other than my keen powers of observation, to why I may have won this particular contest??? Just wondering.....
Feel free to stay awhile and look around.
So, OK.. I have lost my mind. But this little number made me giddy this afternoon.
I spent the morning having a root canal...and the evening getting ready for a trip to the Bahamas with Michael.
Something about this bra made me feel young again. I needed that today..as my teeth continue to betray me. As for the picture of the bra...I blame the pain killers, plus I remember wearing less to the beach in the good ole days.
Wrappings
My mama
will say
Be careful
what I'm
asking for.
I may
just get it.
Fastening
the hooks
I gaze in
the mirror
at lace ready
to reckless.
No doubt.
The time
for asking
is over.
wlf
Hope everyone has a nice Poetry Thursday. I'm going there now..Don't rush me..Keep your shirt on.....
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Poetry Thusday..I'm Back, Baby!
Firstly, let me say being away from poetry for a couple of nights...then coming back, is scary. I am shy all over again. The same thing happens when Michael goes away(every week). I know I love him and know him and trust him. But as he walks through the door, he some how feels different, and strange. Our first embraces are always guarded and forced, like kissing your auntie you have only met once. A necessary evil..oh, I meant nicety.
Neil wrote a very candid PT post about how startling it can be when you write feelings down, and do not edit, or craft, or style for presentation.A very brave post really.It's hard to be honest. Some emotions splay us more then others.
I, personally, am very comfortable in my slightly melancholy, hopeful voice. Very easy for me. I would say that is the real me,my real voice. A long time ago I wrote some lines in a poem. I think I was twenty. I had platinum blond hair a la Madonna a la Marilyn.
"letting my head hang over the bed
I look at myself, upside down
backwards in the mirror.
If I squint my eyes to blurr
most details, I swear I look
almost like Marilyn
right before she died.
A bit disheveled and smudged.
but still somehow trying
clinging to the edge of the pool.
afraid to let go."
I've paraphrased and embellished a bit...but the bones are vintage, and still true. Though now, I know I look nothing like Marilyn, and realize the resemblance was mostly in the smudges.
Emotions I am not comfortable with, are anger, lust, and hate. They are hard for me to verbalize, without acting, or editing. I feel all these things, but like Neil, i keep them private. It's good to recognize this. I'm not sure I will ever change this. But knowledge is power, right?
I've often heard that depression is rage turned inward. That would explain the melancholy.
Now on to the Poem. Since I'm in a Marilyn state of mind...I'll conjure a conversation they might have had...
Mr. President
"WHY, MR PRESIDENT!
(why don't you love me?)
Aren't you a bad boy!
sending your brother
(your beautiful baby brother)
to do your dirty work."
No matter really.
With my eyes closed
or on my hands and knees
you all look the same.
(Theres not a one
who's managed to
be different
so far.)
You both hold on
you both grab at
the same places
and bruise my breast.
You both smell the same
move the same
taste the same
sigh the same.
Still, one of you laughs
and the other does not.
One of you tells me to
fix my face, and close my legs.
The other smooths my hair
pats my tummy.
kisses my nipple
whispers my name.
One of you showers
The other does not.
But both of...
"You will remember
me.
Won't you?"
wlf 8:28
Nice to be back. Poetry Thursday feels like home...Now say it with me..."There's no place like home...."
Neil wrote a very candid PT post about how startling it can be when you write feelings down, and do not edit, or craft, or style for presentation.A very brave post really.It's hard to be honest. Some emotions splay us more then others.
I, personally, am very comfortable in my slightly melancholy, hopeful voice. Very easy for me. I would say that is the real me,my real voice. A long time ago I wrote some lines in a poem. I think I was twenty. I had platinum blond hair a la Madonna a la Marilyn.
"letting my head hang over the bed
I look at myself, upside down
backwards in the mirror.
If I squint my eyes to blurr
most details, I swear I look
almost like Marilyn
right before she died.
A bit disheveled and smudged.
but still somehow trying
clinging to the edge of the pool.
afraid to let go."
I've paraphrased and embellished a bit...but the bones are vintage, and still true. Though now, I know I look nothing like Marilyn, and realize the resemblance was mostly in the smudges.
Emotions I am not comfortable with, are anger, lust, and hate. They are hard for me to verbalize, without acting, or editing. I feel all these things, but like Neil, i keep them private. It's good to recognize this. I'm not sure I will ever change this. But knowledge is power, right?
I've often heard that depression is rage turned inward. That would explain the melancholy.
Now on to the Poem. Since I'm in a Marilyn state of mind...I'll conjure a conversation they might have had...
Mr. President
"WHY, MR PRESIDENT!
(why don't you love me?)
Aren't you a bad boy!
sending your brother
(your beautiful baby brother)
to do your dirty work."
No matter really.
With my eyes closed
or on my hands and knees
you all look the same.
(Theres not a one
who's managed to
be different
so far.)
You both hold on
you both grab at
the same places
and bruise my breast.
You both smell the same
move the same
taste the same
sigh the same.
Still, one of you laughs
and the other does not.
One of you tells me to
fix my face, and close my legs.
The other smooths my hair
pats my tummy.
kisses my nipple
whispers my name.
One of you showers
The other does not.
But both of...
"You will remember
me.
Won't you?"
wlf 8:28
Nice to be back. Poetry Thursday feels like home...Now say it with me..."There's no place like home...."
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, May 03, 2007
As You Like It...For Poetry Thursday
The blog world is a strange place. When I came here, almost a year ago,I thought I would be writing to myself, my muse, and the air. I certainly thought I would be the only one listening. It would be like confessing in a cave. My thoughts and dreams and fears and desires bouncing off dark walls that define the boundaries of my life. Unseen by me, I know they are there,returning my thoughts, echoed back to my own ears, so I can hear them out loud. Perhaps, gain some perspective.
I hadn't thought of other caves. I hadn't thought of other explorers, shouting into their own dark voids. Until I heard the echos of other voices, not my own. I've always been a cheeky curious gal..so I sorta started ease dropping. Then I sort of started talking to the voices. Finally I my eyes adjusted..and I could make out the faces of all of you, sitting with me in the dark.
At first, I thought this meant that I could not confess anymore. I am not as brave as others. When I saw you out there, I really just wanted to check my makeup, straighten my hair, and make a good impression.
But then I noticed that I still heard the same voices, confessing the same fears and hopes and worries, whether I was listening or not. I realized I had found a brave new world. So I continued on, trying to be honest. Sometimes I have to close my eyes, and try to forget anyone else is here with me. I came here for a reason..I had better get on with it.
Something else happened too, along the way. I started wanting to reach out and hold a hand of someone who was struggling. I wanted them to know I was there. They were not alone. In the middle of my crazy rants...I was still listening. I had started to care.
I now, will always care. About strangers. About people I have never met. About people who have taught me once and for all...That we are all in this together.
Today's prompt...was a free day. Address what needs to be addressed.
So this one is for all of you...
Tether
There is a thin fiber.
So thin I can not feel it
(like an eyelash on my cheek)
that trembles when you cry
or when you worry in the night.
When you toss
I turn, with restlessness
I can not explain.
They say 21 grams
is the weight of a soul.
And when we die
we are left heavy bones, yet
lighter by more than mere air.
How stupid, they measure
this only in passing.
For many times, I am sure
during my waking and living,
those 21 grams were gone from me.
Off to be carried by some other.
I was too weak to carry my own.
So, burdened their loads with
just a bit more.
but now I have a strong
back. I offer my shoulder
my spine and my sinew.
I will tuck your problems
in with mine, I will carry
you with me.
Up and over the hill
just beyond this point.
I will carry you to the crest.
For together, we all must
face what lies beyond.
wlf 8:46
Want A Piggy back ride over to Poetry Thursday?...Hop on.........
I hadn't thought of other caves. I hadn't thought of other explorers, shouting into their own dark voids. Until I heard the echos of other voices, not my own. I've always been a cheeky curious gal..so I sorta started ease dropping. Then I sort of started talking to the voices. Finally I my eyes adjusted..and I could make out the faces of all of you, sitting with me in the dark.
At first, I thought this meant that I could not confess anymore. I am not as brave as others. When I saw you out there, I really just wanted to check my makeup, straighten my hair, and make a good impression.
But then I noticed that I still heard the same voices, confessing the same fears and hopes and worries, whether I was listening or not. I realized I had found a brave new world. So I continued on, trying to be honest. Sometimes I have to close my eyes, and try to forget anyone else is here with me. I came here for a reason..I had better get on with it.
Something else happened too, along the way. I started wanting to reach out and hold a hand of someone who was struggling. I wanted them to know I was there. They were not alone. In the middle of my crazy rants...I was still listening. I had started to care.
I now, will always care. About strangers. About people I have never met. About people who have taught me once and for all...That we are all in this together.
Today's prompt...was a free day. Address what needs to be addressed.
So this one is for all of you...
Tether
There is a thin fiber.
So thin I can not feel it
(like an eyelash on my cheek)
that trembles when you cry
or when you worry in the night.
When you toss
I turn, with restlessness
I can not explain.
They say 21 grams
is the weight of a soul.
And when we die
we are left heavy bones, yet
lighter by more than mere air.
How stupid, they measure
this only in passing.
For many times, I am sure
during my waking and living,
those 21 grams were gone from me.
Off to be carried by some other.
I was too weak to carry my own.
So, burdened their loads with
just a bit more.
but now I have a strong
back. I offer my shoulder
my spine and my sinew.
I will tuck your problems
in with mine, I will carry
you with me.
Up and over the hill
just beyond this point.
I will carry you to the crest.
For together, we all must
face what lies beyond.
wlf 8:46
Want A Piggy back ride over to Poetry Thursday?...Hop on.........
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Form over Function? for Poetry Thursday
This poem was written following a form called Villanelle. For the exact form go to PT.
It was written for my trainer, who's mare lost it's foal. The foal was born beautifully alive, but weak, and malformed, with a blaze and four white socks. It first day was its last.
Having to stay in form...may have made this easier to write. Just an aside...I brought the mare, Sidnae, a 20 pound bag of carrots. I fed her some, as the snow covered the ground with white. White, just like the orchids..
Condolence Call
I bring her orchids
in times of grief.
an offering of hope
a line of buds
jade buttons on a sleeve.
I bring her orchids
with two or three
sprung open
an offering of hope,
spread wide and exposed
anchoring the base with ripe.
I bring her orchids
to balance the cruel with the possible.
to lead the fertile way home
an offering of hope.
I can not explain the why of death.
So instead, I find a perfect life.
I bring her orchids
an offering of hope.
wlf
Form a line..single file...and follow me to Poetry Thursday....
It was written for my trainer, who's mare lost it's foal. The foal was born beautifully alive, but weak, and malformed, with a blaze and four white socks. It first day was its last.
Having to stay in form...may have made this easier to write. Just an aside...I brought the mare, Sidnae, a 20 pound bag of carrots. I fed her some, as the snow covered the ground with white. White, just like the orchids..
Condolence Call
I bring her orchids
in times of grief.
an offering of hope
a line of buds
jade buttons on a sleeve.
I bring her orchids
with two or three
sprung open
an offering of hope,
spread wide and exposed
anchoring the base with ripe.
I bring her orchids
to balance the cruel with the possible.
to lead the fertile way home
an offering of hope.
I can not explain the why of death.
So instead, I find a perfect life.
I bring her orchids
an offering of hope.
wlf
Form a line..single file...and follow me to Poetry Thursday....
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Nowhere Near Natural...for PoetryThursday
For a clear explanation of what this is about...see yesterdays entry.
Mock Death
I bring to you
this hollow eulogy
the structure of grief
the outline of loss
the perimeter of life
the indentation of you.
It's middle
all spooned out
no such string
or pumpkin seed
pulp.
It's insides
carefully picked clean
of the soft
details
like the
gold flecks
of your eyes
or
the full upper
of your lip
or
the heart point tip
of your chin.
I bring you
only this empty shell
crudely rendered
as make believe.
An impostor wearing
a misspelled sign.
I need it so.
nowhere near
credible.
an unmistakable
mock death.
wlf 8:18
Get on over to Poetry Thursday!
Mock Death
I bring to you
this hollow eulogy
the structure of grief
the outline of loss
the perimeter of life
the indentation of you.
It's middle
all spooned out
no such string
or pumpkin seed
pulp.
It's insides
carefully picked clean
of the soft
details
like the
gold flecks
of your eyes
or
the full upper
of your lip
or
the heart point tip
of your chin.
I bring you
only this empty shell
crudely rendered
as make believe.
An impostor wearing
a misspelled sign.
I need it so.
nowhere near
credible.
an unmistakable
mock death.
wlf 8:18
Get on over to Poetry Thursday!
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Dear Liz,....For Poetry Thursday
Sonnet XLIII
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
elizabeth barrett browning
Dear Liz,
Wow! Someone has it bad! In today's world, I hate to tell you, this would a mistake. A BIG mistake! Nowadays, men have what they call "commitment issues". And love has often been described as a four letter word.
Sure we still have the feelings,...but we play it cool. The surest way to turn a mans heart to stone..is to surrender completely. (Your poem is very sweet..I must confess....)
Oh, and by the by..no woman in her right mind would promise to love better after death. This really reeks of stalker and boiled bunnies.
That or it's an invitation for dear ole hubby to "assist you" in your departure..So he can get on with life, his purse in tact. Sadly, you see, in today's world we have what is called..Wife Number TWO.
Take heed, Dear Lizzie! No doubt you have talent..That much is clear. Just, perhaps next time, you should write of rage or menstrual cramps...These things, though they may appear frightful at first glance, are really much less menacing in the long run.
You have to learn to play this game with your head, rather than your heart. Trust me on this.
Yours truly,
Wendy
PS..You really should check out Poetry Thursday....It's kinda like a sewing circle..heaps of fun..and only a few pricks! (just kidding)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
elizabeth barrett browning
Dear Liz,
Wow! Someone has it bad! In today's world, I hate to tell you, this would a mistake. A BIG mistake! Nowadays, men have what they call "commitment issues". And love has often been described as a four letter word.
Sure we still have the feelings,...but we play it cool. The surest way to turn a mans heart to stone..is to surrender completely. (Your poem is very sweet..I must confess....)
Oh, and by the by..no woman in her right mind would promise to love better after death. This really reeks of stalker and boiled bunnies.
That or it's an invitation for dear ole hubby to "assist you" in your departure..So he can get on with life, his purse in tact. Sadly, you see, in today's world we have what is called..Wife Number TWO.
Take heed, Dear Lizzie! No doubt you have talent..That much is clear. Just, perhaps next time, you should write of rage or menstrual cramps...These things, though they may appear frightful at first glance, are really much less menacing in the long run.
You have to learn to play this game with your head, rather than your heart. Trust me on this.
Yours truly,
Wendy
PS..You really should check out Poetry Thursday....It's kinda like a sewing circle..heaps of fun..and only a few pricks! (just kidding)
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, March 29, 2007
The Art of Living..for Poetry Thursday
Today's challenge is: find yourself in a piece of art. Well, I have been called a piece of work before, but I don't think that's what they meant! tee hee.
But strangely enough...I have had this thought before. The poem below will address my resemblance to the birth of Venus...OK...I know it's a bit daft....but here goes.
Resemblance
I am
conspicuously
older
than everyone
else.
out of place
in my college
desk.
far away from
the ivy
halls
I had
dreamed of
as a kid.
I have my own kids now.
The baby sitter
is paid
ten dollars
an hour
for me
to learn
about
Renaissance
art history.
(my husband asked
if they had a class
on laundry.
I pretended
not to hear him.)
but now I hear him.
in my head.
Along with the
others laughing
at the middle aged
housewife trying
to go backwards
to go forwards.
I cross my feet
under my chair
just as I did
in second grade.
Lights go out
as slides begin.
Then,the world
breaks open,
like a new
box of crayons.
and there before me,
projected through
dusty community college
air, floats someone
they call Venus.
I see her everyday
I the mirror.
I see her face in mine.
Leaning forward
in my 1950's
desk chair,
I know I must
be losing
my mind.
full in midlife
crisis.
crazy,
that she
should live
in me!
I try
to clear
my head,
to refocus.
yet the
vision of
Venus
remains.
still dancing
in my eyes.
wlf 9:42am
I gotta run now...But I'll be over to PT by lunch......Have fun!
But strangely enough...I have had this thought before. The poem below will address my resemblance to the birth of Venus...OK...I know it's a bit daft....but here goes.
Resemblance
I am
conspicuously
older
than everyone
else.
out of place
in my college
desk.
far away from
the ivy
halls
I had
dreamed of
as a kid.
I have my own kids now.
The baby sitter
is paid
ten dollars
an hour
for me
to learn
about
Renaissance
art history.
(my husband asked
if they had a class
on laundry.
I pretended
not to hear him.)
but now I hear him.
in my head.
Along with the
others laughing
at the middle aged
housewife trying
to go backwards
to go forwards.
I cross my feet
under my chair
just as I did
in second grade.
Lights go out
as slides begin.
Then,the world
breaks open,
like a new
box of crayons.
and there before me,
projected through
dusty community college
air, floats someone
they call Venus.
I see her everyday
I the mirror.
I see her face in mine.
Leaning forward
in my 1950's
desk chair,
I know I must
be losing
my mind.
full in midlife
crisis.
crazy,
that she
should live
in me!
I try
to clear
my head,
to refocus.
yet the
vision of
Venus
remains.
still dancing
in my eyes.
wlf 9:42am
I gotta run now...But I'll be over to PT by lunch......Have fun!
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Definition, please..For Poetry Thursday
Scrabble is big in my husbands family. The sisters-in-law all play(4 in all), as well as the mother-in-law. No big surprise, right. Everyone plays Scrabble eventually. But Scrabble to these women is a blood sport.I did not know this, when I was new to the clan.
I played Scrabble with my Grandmother when I was young, to increase my vocabulary. I never pleased her with a double word score word "simple word". I did, however, make her smile if I came up with an unusual word. Granted, I was 6 and 7..but if I could lay down a word like girth or pinch, she would chuckle. These words showed creativity. These words revealed the power of language, far beyond the typical "cat and dog or run". She was teaching me to reach for detail. in one word. I often misspelled words, and she let them go on the board anyway. This tradition, I carry on today with children. I always allow a truly great word to be Miss-spelled, if it is unintentional. (I yank it if it is to get points. That's cheating.)
Point being,(is there one?) I hardly even knew there was a scoring system component to Scrabble. It was a word game to me. I once suggested a word to Sister in law #4...during a game, as she was scanning her tiles and board. I thought she was stuck. Little did I know, she was doing complicated math calculations in her head..maximizing point potentials and blocking strategies. I just saw a pretty little word, maybe it was mirth..I can't remember.
She ended up pulling off some intricate back hand spring, double twisting, lay out Scrabble maneuver using only two tiles and gaining something like 47 points. She didn't have to advise me to back away from the board. I did that all on my own.
This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was to define a word. We aren't supposed to know the word's meaning. I think I"ll twist the prompt a bit. I 'll use a "little known word". But I can't help it..I'll have to know what it means before I write .. I'm just odd that way. Here I go...
Vespid
Veronica
was
vapid,
but
a vision
on
her
Vespa.
To me,
that
was
enough
to
define
her
as
vespid.
However,
my assumption
was faulty.
It was:
an ability to sting sequentially without consequence
that made her so.
My sting
was
suicide.
life
or
death.
For
she
alone,
had
the
luxury
of
retribution.
wlf 10:04 am
That was fun. Vespid = wasp. Let's buzz over to Poetry Thursday, shall we?
PS..I even fooled my spell checker!! Now that has got to earn me bonus points..Right??
I played Scrabble with my Grandmother when I was young, to increase my vocabulary. I never pleased her with a double word score word "simple word". I did, however, make her smile if I came up with an unusual word. Granted, I was 6 and 7..but if I could lay down a word like girth or pinch, she would chuckle. These words showed creativity. These words revealed the power of language, far beyond the typical "cat and dog or run". She was teaching me to reach for detail. in one word. I often misspelled words, and she let them go on the board anyway. This tradition, I carry on today with children. I always allow a truly great word to be Miss-spelled, if it is unintentional. (I yank it if it is to get points. That's cheating.)
Point being,(is there one?) I hardly even knew there was a scoring system component to Scrabble. It was a word game to me. I once suggested a word to Sister in law #4...during a game, as she was scanning her tiles and board. I thought she was stuck. Little did I know, she was doing complicated math calculations in her head..maximizing point potentials and blocking strategies. I just saw a pretty little word, maybe it was mirth..I can't remember.
She ended up pulling off some intricate back hand spring, double twisting, lay out Scrabble maneuver using only two tiles and gaining something like 47 points. She didn't have to advise me to back away from the board. I did that all on my own.
This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was to define a word. We aren't supposed to know the word's meaning. I think I"ll twist the prompt a bit. I 'll use a "little known word". But I can't help it..I'll have to know what it means before I write .. I'm just odd that way. Here I go...
Vespid
Veronica
was
vapid,
but
a vision
on
her
Vespa.
To me,
that
was
enough
to
define
her
as
vespid.
However,
my assumption
was faulty.
It was:
an ability to sting sequentially without consequence
that made her so.
My sting
was
suicide.
life
or
death.
For
she
alone,
had
the
luxury
of
retribution.
wlf 10:04 am
That was fun. Vespid = wasp. Let's buzz over to Poetry Thursday, shall we?
PS..I even fooled my spell checker!! Now that has got to earn me bonus points..Right??
Labels: Poetry Thursday
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Ruby Red for Poetry Thursday
Out of left field. Sorry. Really no excuse...There are many women living in my head. They surprise me sometimes! I honestly don't think that this poem is based on fact...least I don't think it is....
My Rules
There it was
tucked in a box
tied with a pretty bow.
My red betrayal.
I have always been
a white lace girl.
Maybe pink when
I feel the need
to blush.
Even black is a push
come to shove.
Not really my form.
I was certain you knew me.
So why this
sudden need
for scarlet?
Am I to be
someone else tonight?
Should I keep my
smart mouth shut?
But perhaps you
prefer it open.
Tell you what
make you a deal.
I'll be your vixen
when you buy
your own condoms.
Til then,
Let me drive.
wlf 9:33 pm
Lets mosey on over to PT..shall we.... This should be interesting.
My Rules
There it was
tucked in a box
tied with a pretty bow.
My red betrayal.
I have always been
a white lace girl.
Maybe pink when
I feel the need
to blush.
Even black is a push
come to shove.
Not really my form.
I was certain you knew me.
So why this
sudden need
for scarlet?
Am I to be
someone else tonight?
Should I keep my
smart mouth shut?
But perhaps you
prefer it open.
Tell you what
make you a deal.
I'll be your vixen
when you buy
your own condoms.
Til then,
Let me drive.
wlf 9:33 pm
Lets mosey on over to PT..shall we.... This should be interesting.
Labels: Poetry Thursday
