MUSIC SERIES – The Fancy Dancers

This poem was inspired by the song Hard Headed Woman by Cat Stevens, which was requested by one of my family members! Have a song you think I should pull a poem from? Let me know in the comments!

 

The Fancy Dancers

 

Dressed in sparkling reds and greens,

the fancy dancers preen around

like peacocks under the duress

as their feathers wither to dust.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #86 – Sleeping / Waking

The peacefulness of a Buddhist

draws its way across your brow

beneath the wisps of blonde hair

that hide the blank expression on your face.

 

Then, with the flutter of your eyelids,

the materialism of your features fly back

like the flare of spring when Persephone

crossed the fiery steps of Hades back to Earth.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #79 – VULNERABLE

Hollywood made you imagine

that your sex would be at its best

if you were bound up on your bed

in the silken sheets of restraint,

 

spread completely vulnerable;

like a curbed animal waiting

for her conqueror to return;

to consume her in all his lust.

 

Perhaps you are the deer staring

at the headlights that threaten you,

or the breathless gazelle running

from the belligerent cheetah.

 

Yet it is I who am afraid

to be held like I’ve found a home,

to be rescued from the despair

that slumbers deep within my soul.

——

 

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WAX FIGURE – 50 WORD STORY

He pulled the carving knife away from the eyes, and blew a burst of air across the honey-eyed woman’s face. The thin shavings that carpeted the floor made up the last of the imperfections, yet as he shut off the bright lights for the day, she felt anything but perfect.

——

 

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LAKESIDE (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

Dreamers

Up rose the sunlight

and with it the burdened arms

of bygone dreamers.

 

Sunset Shift

Not many saw him

sweeping under the benches

in the orange sunsets.

 

Domestication

If only the tears

could be managed with make up

as the bruises were.

 

Beach Walks

Bits of green sea glass

greet the sun as emeralds

gleaming in the sand.

 

Lakeside

The mush of brown mud

swallows my toes in the lake

as I amble in.

——

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WONDER WOMAN

Diana wasn’t like her comic book counter part.

She didn’t feel any inner struggle over her Superman.

She struggled with her taxes, getting tenure,

and which of her sister’s twins had twisted the cat’s tail.

 

But she was a Wonder Woman nonetheless;

the kind of woman who would wake up at five

and take the bus to the homeless shelter

just so the sorrowful could have a decent meal.

 

Maybe she pictured herself from time to time

soaring over the skyline as the sun began to shine,

dressed in a one-piece, red and blue suit

and a tiara that twinkled in the sunlight,

 

but I saw her more as the brutal hunter,

ready to hamstring the next Actaeon

that paraded his way into the wrong bathhouse;

protecting her nymphs from another abuser.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #76 – LAMENT OF A HOPELESS ROMANTIC

With the wish to start the story

on a “perhaps” or a “maybe”

he writes with the hope that hid fantasy

will no longer feel like a fallacy.

 

Yet not even four lines into the foreplay

he starts to feel frazzled

over whether or not the woman

is really feeling him, too.

 

He might suppose she’s invoking the muses

as she moans her “Ohs!” to the sky.

Or, perhaps, she’s humming along

to the song of some monks nearby.

 

And so, he abandons her bedside

to scrawl out another sizzler.

Maybe he’ll find more ink for his page

while she finds another mister.

——

 

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DRIFTWOOD (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

Walkthrough

Through the rising waves

walks a woman on the mist

waiting for the tide.

 

Honey Tongued

The nectar of love

sticks like honey in my throat;

makes the words taste sweet.

 

Overgrowth

Wander in her eyes

and find a sylvan forest

overgrown with moss.

 

Earl Grey

There’s no cup of tea

like one brewed in the morning

to burn off the cold.

 

Driftwood

My palms trace the bark

around the broken edges

where its past lingers.

——

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PICKING PLUMS

Five women were picking plums from the ground. Four were doing the actual work. They were carrying swollen bags of fruit, bent over to pile more on top. One, presumably the hardest worker, had already abandoned her bag and was continuing to catch the remaining morsels in her apron. Two others had wandered off in the distance as the plums became harder and harder to find. The fourth was grabbing the last few in the foreground, when she happened upon a sullen, black rock.

The fifth woman was standing with a platter in the center of it all. She was dressed differently than the rest. Her apron was white, and where the others wore a red over-coat, she bore no such garment. Her eyes darted between the women, but returned to the girl standing in the foreground. Her face was a mix of contempt and anguish, as if the girl had done something to wrong her that she couldn’t speak of in front of the rest of the women.

The platter she carried was a small, black platter, perhaps of well-polished, painted wood, or porcelain. It contained plums that looked similar to what the other women were picking, yet they appeared to be the deep color of overripe fruit and, perhaps, were for reference only.

I liked to think, as I passed by, that she was the headmaster’s wife. She was angry at this girl for having slept with the master, and had taken her anger out on her group of maids as a whole. In the heat of day, she had forced them to pick bags and bags of fruit—so many that they had run out of the massive bags, and yet still she made them relentlessly continue. It looked as though they had picked the orchard nearly clean, too. I think they would have kept picking too, had things not changed as I walked out of view.

A sharp cry echoed from behind me, followed by the soft thumps of a dozen or so fruit. I heard footsteps rushing through the woods, then a heavy thud of a rock against something. The footsteps stopped. Two, three, four more times the rock came down, and with each thud emerged a sickening crunch.

When I finally decided to turn back, the grove had been emptied. No bags were anywhere to be seen, nor any women, though there were two patches of plums. The first was far in the distance, where the two women had gone off in search of more. It appeared they had dropped a small handful from their bags as they left, which had rolled harmlessly for a few feet before stopping. The second patch was less fortunate. A dozen plums, much deeper purple, had smashed onto the ground; splattering across the floor. The pulp and juice seeped from beneath the little heads, creating a pool of matter that mixed in with the dirt as they rotted.

——

 

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COMMERCIAL GIRL (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

By the Fountain

Palm trees in the spring

And clear blue summer fountains.

Seagull’s paradise.

 

Devoured

Buzzing mosquitoes

Evade flailing hands; they are

Eating me alive.

 

Overheating

Covered in hot sweat;

Wishing I could fall asleep.

This night seems endless

 

Heart Broken

Every other step

Feels like a thousand tons

When I’m without you.

 

Commercial Girl

One thousand eyes stared

As I walked you home tonight.

No wonder you asked.

——

 

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