GuiltyPleasure
AWTSS
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- Jul 12, 2003
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A reminder that poets were asked to pick a cliché and write two poems, one free form the second a form of the poet's choice, using the cliché in both. So with no further ado.....the poems presented in the order they arrived.
1 - Cliché: - Time heals all wounds.
La Symphonie Pathétique
The violinists, it seems to me,
lament Tchaikovsky's suffering,
the why they close their eyes when they play.
We may have to hear but don't have to see.
She left last week. Get over it,
period, end of sentence, Ben.
Time heals all wounds you said,
sitting next to an empty seat.
Oh, how discreet the envelop there,
and I could guess what was beneath
the flap whose letter to me began
without a "Dear" before the "Ben."
Form: heroic couplet
Edited Version
Beethoven’s Ninth, Fourth Movement
Yes, time does heal all wounds to my relief.
There is no longer wound to heal, nor grief.
No more do violinists scrape their bows
upon my heartstrings, frayed, worn thin, exposed,
when desperate I'd do most anything,
for I was but a puppet on her string,
Pinocchio. Oh how my nose would grow
when music was in minor scales of woe.
What once was fugue is now a symphony
and once mere sound now notes of harmony
when all Beethoven's magic strings float by.
Why even kettledrums and trombones fly!
2 - Cliché – down in the mouth
Down in the mouth
________________________________________
I thought you were mine to lose,
like each glass of wine,
a holy communion of kindred souls
but it was only
an intoxication of words,
the sweet spice that seasons my honey.
And now? Such a deep longing
for your lips on mine.
.....................................................
Cliché – down in the mouth
Edited version
Form - A pantoum
In my dream he lay on the shore
like flotsam thrown by the sea,
held close to my bosom, before
I sang my siren song of the free.
Like flotsam thrown by the sea
and claimed to be now my own,
I sang my siren song of the free,
him the North wind had blown
and claimed to be now my own
by closing my mouth round his cock
him the North wind had blown.
My blow had him soon hard as rock!
By closing my mouth round his cock,
held close to my bosom, before
my blow had him soon hard as rock.
In my dream he lay on the shore.
3 - Cliché – Better late than never
"Patience in Delay" - contemporary Haiku
Chance of sweet release
an unknown destination
keeps her toes curling.
"Nullify" Free form poem
The way he walks
He stands so tall
But no one can see
He's about to fall.
The news he just heard,
the way he is feeling
He's pushing it out
To elevate like a ceiling
She can't be unfaithful
He knocks on the door
She opens it up.
He screams at her "WHORE!"
She stares blank like a cow
chewing slow through a cud
Who could have told him
his best friend or the stud?
He grabs all his bags
He vacates from her house
Gone now are his thoughts
Of her as his spouse
She cries when he leaves
He hears nothing still
He feels deep in his gut
A familiar chill.
Who was it who told him?
It wasn't just chance
Everyone he accused
had gotten in her pants.
He heard the remark
From a friend now turned foe
They just got into it
He'd called her a hoe.
He ignored every sign
before fate caused the sever
it stung even worse now
was it better late than never?
A knife in the heart
A hole in his pride
He wants to feel numb
Avoid pain inside.
He picks up a pen,
He writes it all down
He wipes away tears
His sorrows will drown.
4 - Cliché – to eat crow
Eat Crow - Sestina
The menu is roast crow
and the meal is mean.
I, the cook, am sorry
but we are not too poor
to pull up chairs, sit and eat
like all those rich folk do.
So come, sit, eat, do
as I ask and you will crow
with pleasure. We’ll eat,
that’s what I mean,
pretend we’re not poor
even if the meal is, sorry.
I am aware of our sorry
state but we make do,
steak is for the rich, not poor,
What road kill’s on offer? Crow
today. It’s hard not to feel mean
but poor as we are, we must eat.
You’re hungry enough to eat
a horse or two I know, sorry.
Pretend this bird, in the mean-
time, is steak or roast turkey, do
try, and not just scrawny crow.
Make like we are wealthy not poor.
I know we’re in a very poor
state when all we have to eat
is found food like this crow
and, as I serve it, I am sorry
but there’s nothing else to do.
Please don’t think me mean.
Let me tell you. It is no mean
feat to scrounge and make this poor
fare, somehow, into gourmet like I do.
So please sit down and eat
or, by my life, you will be sorry
and ultimately end up eating crow
all over again. I don’t feel poor
really but I do feel sorry when crow is
the mean diet that we must eat.
Eating Crow
It is hard not to swallow
without gagging or choking
on the feathers of discredit
or the brittle bones of contention.
Dented ego, the pummelled pride
is the case of aversion that follows.
The unintended insult
thoughtlessly blurted never to be
retrieved, the graceless giggle
at the grave-side or at other earnest events;
the unforgivable extravagance
unexpectedly exposed, all require
a collation of crow.
The bogus boastful claim uncovered.
The lie laid bare so if you care,
eat crow. Grudges grown old mean
a mutual meal but crow grown cold
makes a detestable dinner.
5 - Cliché – Young and foolish
Young and foolish?
________________________________________
Form - Reverse Sestina!
Ah yes, what it is
to remember and
be back when I was
young, confident
and didn't know how
foolish I was being.
Foolish enough alright
ah, but those heady
and far away days
to go where only the
young could play and
be uncaring of danger.
Be there, only now in
foolish dreams of those
young carefree moments.
Ah, if you only knew,
to look at me now
and wonder what I did.
And what did I do?
Be certain I lived my life
to the hilt but really
foolish beyond the norm.
Ah my Mother never knew her
young daughter's ways!
Young me it must be said
(and others too)
Ah, they led me astray, would
be out there making
foolish decisions
to pass our time!
To work hard, play hard,
young girl's ways were
foolish, yet such fun
and I've scars in proof,
be well aware.
Ah yes I remember.
If I was to tell those escapades and
the young of today would be
asking "You that foolish?" Ah yes!
..........................................................................
This poem is very short because
writing the other stretched
my brain cells just that little
bit too far. I was old and
Foolish!
6 - The cliché is "cold shoulder":
Necrophilia
When finally I woke
from those thick, sluggish dreams,
he was already dead. The friar
who assisted us had left in fear.
Then I heard a noise,
found the dagger near,
and laid myself on his cold shoulder,
sheathed the blade hilt deep
in my heart. One last freezing kiss.
I thought I noticed some rust
on the blade.
How apt.
Ambition - Triolet
This ingénue is getting older
And looking for more senior rôles,
Like Macbeth's Lady—whose cold shoulder,
Some ingénues who're getting older
Aspire to the chops and smolder
That consummate their acting goals.
(An ingénue, when getting older,
Is looking for more senior rôles.)
7 - Cliché: Holier than thou
I'm Holier Than Thou Art, Friend
That would've got him a shiner
back at the stockyard in Chicago,
but here we are in an empty box car
at midnight half the distance to Kansas.
He said it with a twinkle in his eye,
offering me a cigarette
from a crumpled pack with just two left,
worth a few minutes of my time
to hear "The name's Ben. What's yours?
Been tramping these rails since '32,
lost my job, the wife heads east.
Betcha got a story too, my friend."
I did. We talked 'til 3 am.
So Ben, he pulls out a needle and thread
before some shut eye and says again,
"I'm holier than thou art, Friend."
"Now I get it," I says to Ben
but something else felt warm inside
like O Holy Night snowflakes that fell
until the morning's shoveling of shit
when we earned some bits in Topeka
for a pack of Camels to share
with coffee and some breaking of bread
before heading south with my new friend, Ben.
Form poem: curtal sonnet
Mission Street Curtal Sonnet
They transubstantiate him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if he were Jason
Or Jesse, Man, their black and white lies sprayed
With quotes on poster boards. They look to score
More goats to banish from their nation.
Ain't nothing like another new crusade.
LEVITICUS 18 VERSE 22
REPENT! IT IS AN ABOMINATION!
Here comes the holier than thou parade.
For Christ's sake, Lou. They think this is how you
Praise Him.
8 - Cliché - About face.
Military Precision A Cinquain
Left, right!
Quick march. Slow, halt.
Mark time! By the right, dress.
Attention! About face. Stand down.
Dismissed.
Making Faces
Plastic surgeon
This is where the money is,
rich bitch or conceited dude.
Only the well heeled need apply
to seek a younger look with
nose jobs, Botox, face lifts,
all at face value. Let’s face it,
sometimes, in the mirror a
face falls, disappointed. It’s
time for a brave face, a game
face. Time to face the music
and age gracefully, fly in the
face of father time. Those
who can’t suffer the loss
of face return to me to stare
ageing in the face again.
Reconstructive surgeon
Did you know that less
avaricious surgeons are
able to peel a discarded face
from the freshly dead (a face off?)
and gently, with infinite care,
drape it over the skeletal structure
of a face destroyed by disease
or disaster, a face that made
children cry and adults gasp?
The surgeons stoop and
stitch, their magnified eyes
studied above medical masks.
(saving face?) Let us face facts,
this is a face plant of a different kind.
Make-up Artist
Make up used to be the
only way to create movie
monsters. Lon Chaney lost
years sitting in my chair
while I glued facial hair
to his forehead. Boris
Karloff’s bandages peeled
away from my make-up
corruption. Bela Lugosi
and Christopher Lee called
for heavy mascara, fangs
and fake blood. I loved
them all for their long
suffering patience, for their
devotion to their chosen art.
Now Gollum is more green
screen than pancake and
zombies are mass produced
with no finesse. The stage is
my last bastion, my refuge,
where ingénues become Cats
and Norma Desmond descends
once more, ready for her close-up..
9 - Cliché -When Luck runs out
A Triolet
The more I think about all of it,
luck ran out intertwined with my muse.
You'd think it'd be easy all of this shit,
the more I think about all of it.
This line goes here, followed by this bit,
now get this right and I can't lose.
(but) the more I think about all of it,
luck ran out intertwined with my muse.
................................................
I wonder if my luck started
to trickle away, bit by bit,
over the years since I lost you.
Not noticeable at first, but
gradually it dawned on me,
letting you go, cut my lifeline,
bleeding out my dreams.
10 - Cliché - the devil's in the details
Revised version
The way her faint florescence with its almond overtones
encounters a more womanly aroma, seeping
languorously into the humid
atmosphere
that cloaks her hot proximity
the devil is in the details
that calculated tilting of the hips
an audacious shocking sentiment
uttered at the perfect instant
her wickedness is better than bliss.
Form - Terza Rima
Her faint florescence, almond overtones,
And how they blend with scents more womanly
That seep from places in her lovely zones
And linger in her hot proximity --
The devil's in the details, so they say,
And she contrives a certain piquancy,
A sinful twist that she brings into play:
The calculated lifting of the hips
That thrills me in a most surprising way,
The bold transgressions of her fingertips,
The shocking places she is wont to kiss,
The scorching words escaping from her lips;
I love my lover's gifted wickedness,
For it transports me better than all bliss.
11 - Cliché – Crying over spilt milk
Let It Go
It seems quite trivial now,
all the sorrow and regret
for those things we can't undo.
Maybe we should have thought
more about our actions
and considered the things we said.
Planned our path and road mapped
the detours and bumps on the way,
before stumbling about in the dark.
Set in motion there's no going back,
no changing our mind for our tears,
and darling it really makes no sense
that you wish for a different result.
Now stop crying over spilt milk.
The Milkmaid's Fortune (quatrains)
It dripped in pools, pale yellow in richness,
and filling the seams in the floor.
The milkmaid worried, brow creased in a frown
when she saw the cook at the door.
The butt'ry cream for the churn was all gone
the bucket upended and spilt
the kittens were purring, quite glad and content
and lapped til their bellies were filled.
The biscuits and butter no more could be served
with the beef and vegetable soup
The cook howled and raged at the poor girl's luck
while her spirits visibly drooped
The butler laughed and told Cook to make do,
as he straightened his tie of silk,
"Yesterday's butter will work in a pinch,
do stop crying, over spilt milk”
12 - Cliché: Fit to be tied.
Please Respond to Dominique, Box 157
The little notices she placed
in the back pages
of select magazines
never quite spelled out
the range of services
she offered. One doesn't say
such things too plainly
as that might disturb
the fantasy,
and she was used to reading
each client's particular desires
when they arrived,
eyes downcast
for the session. She knew
the one important, most important,
thing: Men are simply rope.
Pliable, easily coiled,
and always fit to be tied.
Form poem (nonce form based on anapests):
Fifty Shades of Grey: The Prequel
In which Mr. Grey learns the ropes
She was fit to be tied.
He was quick to oblige
and secured her to these iron railings.
With a flick of his lash,
she then twitched as a gash
in her skin was split open by flailing.
Then he threw the whip down
with a cry and he frowned—
not so Dominant with his face paling.
She said, "Christian! OK,
it's a little rough play,
but it thrills me, so cut out the wailing!"
So old Chris settled back,
put his mind back on track,
and got started back in on her whaling.
13 – Cliché – Getting Laid
Form - Limerick
There once was a virginal maid
Who said “I just have to get laid!”
Men swarmed at the news
But she couldn’t choose
So a lesbian came to her aid.
The Egg’s Perspective
Some people think we are pooped
out by the hen but we have our own
portal through which to enter
the world. Our creator might sit,
keep us warm until a chick is born.
More often, once we’re laid, humans
raid the nest and the rest you already know.
You boil us, soft and hard, fry us
in a knob of lard, scramble our golden
yolk. Bottom line, no one’s ever been
known to choke on an egg.
14 - Cliché - Acid Test
Acid Test (Terza Rima)
What color are the dots where you are now?
They're blue; sometimes they're too small.
Then in another room someone says "Wow,
Ben Franklin's head is moving on that wall."
The 7-UP tastes icy green but blurred.
Your socks are in the freezer rolled in a ball,
while in the mirror uh oh someone sees a bird
and I've just seen a face. (Who was that guy?)
Everywhere are voices. I can't catch the words.
I'm busy thinking Lucy is a goddess in the sky
talking to the trees that dance outside the glass.
The dead are loud and grateful. So am I
wavering and waxing as unknown hours pass
falling with the music, colors, rising light:
here comes the Sun, waking up the grass.
**********************
Acid Test
I can't imagine
what control group could count us
normal. We're all skewed. One marriage
broke up when he found a slinky thing;
so did Cindy and her crazy husband
Ming. Bette was on her own years before
our time, but you always said everything
is fine, just fine. We're still together
so we must be fine.
Kate's a feminist, a survivor
of the wars. She says comes a time
when you have to hit the wall:
you can't sustain your balance. You fall.
I tried for years beyond my knowing:
past the lies, that broken chair. I know
what it's like to live with despair.
Every point on the plot jerked me down,
every point like a suppurating sore
and Kate was right, came a time
I couldn't do it anymore.
There is no single moment, no
one sure acid test to prove the theorem
of our sad significance. Every point
a snapshot that I'd rather not review
is plotted on a line that slips
and slithers off the page, the findings
clear only now here in the chill
of longitude.
1 - Cliché: - Time heals all wounds.
La Symphonie Pathétique
The violinists, it seems to me,
lament Tchaikovsky's suffering,
the why they close their eyes when they play.
We may have to hear but don't have to see.
She left last week. Get over it,
period, end of sentence, Ben.
Time heals all wounds you said,
sitting next to an empty seat.
Oh, how discreet the envelop there,
and I could guess what was beneath
the flap whose letter to me began
without a "Dear" before the "Ben."
Form: heroic couplet
Edited Version
Beethoven’s Ninth, Fourth Movement
Yes, time does heal all wounds to my relief.
There is no longer wound to heal, nor grief.
No more do violinists scrape their bows
upon my heartstrings, frayed, worn thin, exposed,
when desperate I'd do most anything,
for I was but a puppet on her string,
Pinocchio. Oh how my nose would grow
when music was in minor scales of woe.
What once was fugue is now a symphony
and once mere sound now notes of harmony
when all Beethoven's magic strings float by.
Why even kettledrums and trombones fly!
2 - Cliché – down in the mouth
Down in the mouth
________________________________________
I thought you were mine to lose,
like each glass of wine,
a holy communion of kindred souls
but it was only
an intoxication of words,
the sweet spice that seasons my honey.
And now? Such a deep longing
for your lips on mine.
.....................................................
Cliché – down in the mouth
Edited version
Form - A pantoum
In my dream he lay on the shore
like flotsam thrown by the sea,
held close to my bosom, before
I sang my siren song of the free.
Like flotsam thrown by the sea
and claimed to be now my own,
I sang my siren song of the free,
him the North wind had blown
and claimed to be now my own
by closing my mouth round his cock
him the North wind had blown.
My blow had him soon hard as rock!
By closing my mouth round his cock,
held close to my bosom, before
my blow had him soon hard as rock.
In my dream he lay on the shore.
3 - Cliché – Better late than never
"Patience in Delay" - contemporary Haiku
Chance of sweet release
an unknown destination
keeps her toes curling.
"Nullify" Free form poem
The way he walks
He stands so tall
But no one can see
He's about to fall.
The news he just heard,
the way he is feeling
He's pushing it out
To elevate like a ceiling
She can't be unfaithful
He knocks on the door
She opens it up.
He screams at her "WHORE!"
She stares blank like a cow
chewing slow through a cud
Who could have told him
his best friend or the stud?
He grabs all his bags
He vacates from her house
Gone now are his thoughts
Of her as his spouse
She cries when he leaves
He hears nothing still
He feels deep in his gut
A familiar chill.
Who was it who told him?
It wasn't just chance
Everyone he accused
had gotten in her pants.
He heard the remark
From a friend now turned foe
They just got into it
He'd called her a hoe.
He ignored every sign
before fate caused the sever
it stung even worse now
was it better late than never?
A knife in the heart
A hole in his pride
He wants to feel numb
Avoid pain inside.
He picks up a pen,
He writes it all down
He wipes away tears
His sorrows will drown.
4 - Cliché – to eat crow
Eat Crow - Sestina
The menu is roast crow
and the meal is mean.
I, the cook, am sorry
but we are not too poor
to pull up chairs, sit and eat
like all those rich folk do.
So come, sit, eat, do
as I ask and you will crow
with pleasure. We’ll eat,
that’s what I mean,
pretend we’re not poor
even if the meal is, sorry.
I am aware of our sorry
state but we make do,
steak is for the rich, not poor,
What road kill’s on offer? Crow
today. It’s hard not to feel mean
but poor as we are, we must eat.
You’re hungry enough to eat
a horse or two I know, sorry.
Pretend this bird, in the mean-
time, is steak or roast turkey, do
try, and not just scrawny crow.
Make like we are wealthy not poor.
I know we’re in a very poor
state when all we have to eat
is found food like this crow
and, as I serve it, I am sorry
but there’s nothing else to do.
Please don’t think me mean.
Let me tell you. It is no mean
feat to scrounge and make this poor
fare, somehow, into gourmet like I do.
So please sit down and eat
or, by my life, you will be sorry
and ultimately end up eating crow
all over again. I don’t feel poor
really but I do feel sorry when crow is
the mean diet that we must eat.
Eating Crow
It is hard not to swallow
without gagging or choking
on the feathers of discredit
or the brittle bones of contention.
Dented ego, the pummelled pride
is the case of aversion that follows.
The unintended insult
thoughtlessly blurted never to be
retrieved, the graceless giggle
at the grave-side or at other earnest events;
the unforgivable extravagance
unexpectedly exposed, all require
a collation of crow.
The bogus boastful claim uncovered.
The lie laid bare so if you care,
eat crow. Grudges grown old mean
a mutual meal but crow grown cold
makes a detestable dinner.
5 - Cliché – Young and foolish
Young and foolish?
________________________________________
Form - Reverse Sestina!
Ah yes, what it is
to remember and
be back when I was
young, confident
and didn't know how
foolish I was being.
Foolish enough alright
ah, but those heady
and far away days
to go where only the
young could play and
be uncaring of danger.
Be there, only now in
foolish dreams of those
young carefree moments.
Ah, if you only knew,
to look at me now
and wonder what I did.
And what did I do?
Be certain I lived my life
to the hilt but really
foolish beyond the norm.
Ah my Mother never knew her
young daughter's ways!
Young me it must be said
(and others too)
Ah, they led me astray, would
be out there making
foolish decisions
to pass our time!
To work hard, play hard,
young girl's ways were
foolish, yet such fun
and I've scars in proof,
be well aware.
Ah yes I remember.
If I was to tell those escapades and
the young of today would be
asking "You that foolish?" Ah yes!
..........................................................................
This poem is very short because
writing the other stretched
my brain cells just that little
bit too far. I was old and
Foolish!
6 - The cliché is "cold shoulder":
Necrophilia
When finally I woke
from those thick, sluggish dreams,
he was already dead. The friar
who assisted us had left in fear.
Then I heard a noise,
found the dagger near,
and laid myself on his cold shoulder,
sheathed the blade hilt deep
in my heart. One last freezing kiss.
I thought I noticed some rust
on the blade.
How apt.
Ambition - Triolet
This ingénue is getting older
And looking for more senior rôles,
Like Macbeth's Lady—whose cold shoulder,
Some ingénues who're getting older
Aspire to the chops and smolder
That consummate their acting goals.
(An ingénue, when getting older,
Is looking for more senior rôles.)
7 - Cliché: Holier than thou
I'm Holier Than Thou Art, Friend
That would've got him a shiner
back at the stockyard in Chicago,
but here we are in an empty box car
at midnight half the distance to Kansas.
He said it with a twinkle in his eye,
offering me a cigarette
from a crumpled pack with just two left,
worth a few minutes of my time
to hear "The name's Ben. What's yours?
Been tramping these rails since '32,
lost my job, the wife heads east.
Betcha got a story too, my friend."
I did. We talked 'til 3 am.
So Ben, he pulls out a needle and thread
before some shut eye and says again,
"I'm holier than thou art, Friend."
"Now I get it," I says to Ben
but something else felt warm inside
like O Holy Night snowflakes that fell
until the morning's shoveling of shit
when we earned some bits in Topeka
for a pack of Camels to share
with coffee and some breaking of bread
before heading south with my new friend, Ben.
Form poem: curtal sonnet
Mission Street Curtal Sonnet
They transubstantiate him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if he were Jason
Or Jesse, Man, their black and white lies sprayed
With quotes on poster boards. They look to score
More goats to banish from their nation.
Ain't nothing like another new crusade.
LEVITICUS 18 VERSE 22
REPENT! IT IS AN ABOMINATION!
Here comes the holier than thou parade.
For Christ's sake, Lou. They think this is how you
Praise Him.
8 - Cliché - About face.
Military Precision A Cinquain
Left, right!
Quick march. Slow, halt.
Mark time! By the right, dress.
Attention! About face. Stand down.
Dismissed.
Making Faces
Plastic surgeon
This is where the money is,
rich bitch or conceited dude.
Only the well heeled need apply
to seek a younger look with
nose jobs, Botox, face lifts,
all at face value. Let’s face it,
sometimes, in the mirror a
face falls, disappointed. It’s
time for a brave face, a game
face. Time to face the music
and age gracefully, fly in the
face of father time. Those
who can’t suffer the loss
of face return to me to stare
ageing in the face again.
Reconstructive surgeon
Did you know that less
avaricious surgeons are
able to peel a discarded face
from the freshly dead (a face off?)
and gently, with infinite care,
drape it over the skeletal structure
of a face destroyed by disease
or disaster, a face that made
children cry and adults gasp?
The surgeons stoop and
stitch, their magnified eyes
studied above medical masks.
(saving face?) Let us face facts,
this is a face plant of a different kind.
Make-up Artist
Make up used to be the
only way to create movie
monsters. Lon Chaney lost
years sitting in my chair
while I glued facial hair
to his forehead. Boris
Karloff’s bandages peeled
away from my make-up
corruption. Bela Lugosi
and Christopher Lee called
for heavy mascara, fangs
and fake blood. I loved
them all for their long
suffering patience, for their
devotion to their chosen art.
Now Gollum is more green
screen than pancake and
zombies are mass produced
with no finesse. The stage is
my last bastion, my refuge,
where ingénues become Cats
and Norma Desmond descends
once more, ready for her close-up..
9 - Cliché -When Luck runs out
A Triolet
The more I think about all of it,
luck ran out intertwined with my muse.
You'd think it'd be easy all of this shit,
the more I think about all of it.
This line goes here, followed by this bit,
now get this right and I can't lose.
(but) the more I think about all of it,
luck ran out intertwined with my muse.
................................................
I wonder if my luck started
to trickle away, bit by bit,
over the years since I lost you.
Not noticeable at first, but
gradually it dawned on me,
letting you go, cut my lifeline,
bleeding out my dreams.
10 - Cliché - the devil's in the details
Revised version
The way her faint florescence with its almond overtones
encounters a more womanly aroma, seeping
languorously into the humid
atmosphere
that cloaks her hot proximity
the devil is in the details
that calculated tilting of the hips
an audacious shocking sentiment
uttered at the perfect instant
her wickedness is better than bliss.
Form - Terza Rima
Her faint florescence, almond overtones,
And how they blend with scents more womanly
That seep from places in her lovely zones
And linger in her hot proximity --
The devil's in the details, so they say,
And she contrives a certain piquancy,
A sinful twist that she brings into play:
The calculated lifting of the hips
That thrills me in a most surprising way,
The bold transgressions of her fingertips,
The shocking places she is wont to kiss,
The scorching words escaping from her lips;
I love my lover's gifted wickedness,
For it transports me better than all bliss.
11 - Cliché – Crying over spilt milk
Let It Go
It seems quite trivial now,
all the sorrow and regret
for those things we can't undo.
Maybe we should have thought
more about our actions
and considered the things we said.
Planned our path and road mapped
the detours and bumps on the way,
before stumbling about in the dark.
Set in motion there's no going back,
no changing our mind for our tears,
and darling it really makes no sense
that you wish for a different result.
Now stop crying over spilt milk.
The Milkmaid's Fortune (quatrains)
It dripped in pools, pale yellow in richness,
and filling the seams in the floor.
The milkmaid worried, brow creased in a frown
when she saw the cook at the door.
The butt'ry cream for the churn was all gone
the bucket upended and spilt
the kittens were purring, quite glad and content
and lapped til their bellies were filled.
The biscuits and butter no more could be served
with the beef and vegetable soup
The cook howled and raged at the poor girl's luck
while her spirits visibly drooped
The butler laughed and told Cook to make do,
as he straightened his tie of silk,
"Yesterday's butter will work in a pinch,
do stop crying, over spilt milk”
12 - Cliché: Fit to be tied.
Please Respond to Dominique, Box 157
The little notices she placed
in the back pages
of select magazines
never quite spelled out
the range of services
she offered. One doesn't say
such things too plainly
as that might disturb
the fantasy,
and she was used to reading
each client's particular desires
when they arrived,
eyes downcast
for the session. She knew
the one important, most important,
thing: Men are simply rope.
Pliable, easily coiled,
and always fit to be tied.
Form poem (nonce form based on anapests):
Fifty Shades of Grey: The Prequel
In which Mr. Grey learns the ropes
She was fit to be tied.
He was quick to oblige
and secured her to these iron railings.
With a flick of his lash,
she then twitched as a gash
in her skin was split open by flailing.
Then he threw the whip down
with a cry and he frowned—
not so Dominant with his face paling.
She said, "Christian! OK,
it's a little rough play,
but it thrills me, so cut out the wailing!"
So old Chris settled back,
put his mind back on track,
and got started back in on her whaling.
13 – Cliché – Getting Laid
Form - Limerick
There once was a virginal maid
Who said “I just have to get laid!”
Men swarmed at the news
But she couldn’t choose
So a lesbian came to her aid.
The Egg’s Perspective
Some people think we are pooped
out by the hen but we have our own
portal through which to enter
the world. Our creator might sit,
keep us warm until a chick is born.
More often, once we’re laid, humans
raid the nest and the rest you already know.
You boil us, soft and hard, fry us
in a knob of lard, scramble our golden
yolk. Bottom line, no one’s ever been
known to choke on an egg.
14 - Cliché - Acid Test
Acid Test (Terza Rima)
What color are the dots where you are now?
They're blue; sometimes they're too small.
Then in another room someone says "Wow,
Ben Franklin's head is moving on that wall."
The 7-UP tastes icy green but blurred.
Your socks are in the freezer rolled in a ball,
while in the mirror uh oh someone sees a bird
and I've just seen a face. (Who was that guy?)
Everywhere are voices. I can't catch the words.
I'm busy thinking Lucy is a goddess in the sky
talking to the trees that dance outside the glass.
The dead are loud and grateful. So am I
wavering and waxing as unknown hours pass
falling with the music, colors, rising light:
here comes the Sun, waking up the grass.
**********************
Acid Test
I can't imagine
what control group could count us
normal. We're all skewed. One marriage
broke up when he found a slinky thing;
so did Cindy and her crazy husband
Ming. Bette was on her own years before
our time, but you always said everything
is fine, just fine. We're still together
so we must be fine.
Kate's a feminist, a survivor
of the wars. She says comes a time
when you have to hit the wall:
you can't sustain your balance. You fall.
I tried for years beyond my knowing:
past the lies, that broken chair. I know
what it's like to live with despair.
Every point on the plot jerked me down,
every point like a suppurating sore
and Kate was right, came a time
I couldn't do it anymore.
There is no single moment, no
one sure acid test to prove the theorem
of our sad significance. Every point
a snapshot that I'd rather not review
is plotted on a line that slips
and slithers off the page, the findings
clear only now here in the chill
of longitude.
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rolleyes
