Friday, February 27, 2015

C'mere, Sugah

C'mere, sugah.
Oh come
woudja, sweetheart?

Aw, don't be like that.
Aintcha glad t'see me?

All right.
I'll just bide my time.
is that a good book?
ya didn't have to close it,
but I guess there's a fire or something outside that window.
Yep, something wonderful in-ter-esting.

Well hello there, baby.
I sure love you a bunch too.
Feels like I ain't seen ya in donkey's years.
I said "years", not "ears."
No, I ain't saying nothing about your mama.
I like ole Jenny just fine,
you know I do!
She made you, didn't she?
(yeah, I know that's pretty cornball,
but true.)

C'mon, then.
Let's go paint the town!
Um, you ain't gonna get there very fast
sitting down.
Now what?
I seen tree stumps less firmly planted.
Take it easy,
I was just yanking your rope,
but how come if I say A,
you just GOT to say Z?

All the same,
I love ya so.
You'll always be my hinny honey,
and yes,
I love your singing.
You shoulda been in some sort of horse opera--
you woulda done your daddy proud.
Now can we go?
Kick up a little dust?

I love it when you walk right close.
Aw sugah.
Aw shucks.

for Marian's Time (the Revelator) challenge at Real Toads. I used a different Gillian Welch song, "Hard Times."

Fun facts to know and tell: a female donkey is a "jenny". When bred with a male horse, you get a "hinny".



Book Review: "The Fragile World"

The Fragile WorldThe Fragile World by Paula Treick DeBoard

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is the story of the Kaufman family, Curtis and Kathleen, their musical prodigy son Daniel, and his younger sister Olivia. When Daniel, away at college, is killed by a careless driver while walking home from a pizza parlor, things begin to unravel for the rest of the family. The point of view alternates between Curtis and Olivia. Normally, I'm not a fan of shifting point of view, but here it was the only way to tell the story because the characters keep secrets from each other, but the reader needs to know.

I found this novel highly readable, and I cared about all of the characters. The ending threw me a little bit, or at least, a detail about the ending did. Definitely a good read and an author I would gladly read again. 

View all my reviews

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Crop Duster

She fell out of the crop dusting plane--
chemicals may, in fact, have had something to do with it.
She was certainly high.
She may have been lit.

She threw herself, a bouquet, at the world.
Here comes a blossom,
a real live flesh and blood

There were no stairs.
Had there been, she could have done her best deb walk,
descending photogenically
from blue
to bloom
and from sky
to stalk.

Okay, so it was me, on my way down from wing-walking of an afternoon.
I thought I saw you below me, among the vines,
eating a tomato and reading Whitman.
It could have been you.
It could have been chemistry
or kismet
or my eyes playing tricks.

Anyway, every time I breathe,
my blood turns from moody jay to calling cardinal.
That is why I had to come and kiss you, honey,
even if I had to fall.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Requiem For A Cassowary

Here is the man, your hero, shot
into space by sign of what man can do;
what ass can question, what ass has got
more than an astronaut's glory? You?

Halo'd on podium with his lessers, the crew,
he's God's own bratty favorite.
Shine and stardust? He's made of it.

The Moon and Mars fall back a pace
in the face of science's full command,
to probe, to pierce, and then retrace
back home to our grand blue ampersand.

Yes, here is the hero, the amplified man
in parade, in decline, in decaying orbit,
ceasing the circle before he could form it.

for Margaret's Play it Again, Toads # 14. Bursting with hubris, I did my own!


Thursday, February 19, 2015

From A Sugar Bowl Womb

From a sugar bowl womb,
came the World's Sweetest Girl--

I'm like a vision at lake side,
talking rot to the swans--
and oh how I do go 

I am formed of the frilly, the feminine, the fine--
thanks to old Daddy down the anthracite mine.

One step,
two step,
three step, five;
I'm made out of honey from an old bee hive.
Work bee, 
fly bee,
sleep bee, then
sink that stinger if he tries it again.

Church on Sunday, Monday do the wash.
See if it sticks or scrubs right off.
Do you think I'm pretty?
Everybody does--

ask around,
ask Alice,
ask sweetly,
ask the swans.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Tell Me Everything

"Tell me everything," you said.
"Let's have no secrets between us."
Then you sent your ten sorceresses--
four around the hill, with one at the crest,
three together in the garden at rest,
and two down into the valley. Such beautiful dancers, these.

My name is Melusine,
a love letter written on wine-dark pages,
sealed in a jewelry box with a serpent in gold at the edges.
You were a spilled apple bushel,
not realizing that it is the seed, not the fruit that matters.
What was it in the one thing I asked you not to do,
not to know,
that made you so keen and cruel to know?

Not cruel to me, though I am angry; though I am gone.
You undid yourself, making me the instrument of it.
Don't you get it?
I asked only to be left alone at my bath,
that I might bobble the skulls of all my old loves
and wind around them in clumsy recompense.

The next time you come to a locked door, remember me.
Wind a grape vine around your hair,
wind the hemp and kick the chair,
do anything to give yourself a moment to think--
then, my used-to-be darling,
open that idiot mouth of yours
and swallow that forged metal apple, the key.

For Magpie #258.

Thank you to Hedgewitch, for making me think of Melusine. 

Saturday, February 14, 2015

Promise Me

Promise you'll always love me
as we sit with pastries and a cup of coffee before us;
say it after the bar holding up the awning of the cafe has fallen,
dazing you.

Say it now, when the sun is as bright over your shoulder
as a hijacked 747.
Say it now, when we can have the moment as lovers,
not as litigants;
soothe me with the words I long to hear.

When we were young, we believed
in every fantastic happy fiction we found in the sticky pages
of our heavily illustrated story books.
regime change.
attractive others, smiling, as kind as undertakers.

Promise you'll always love me,
say it now, before the Narcan kicks in.
Say it now, while my heart is full for you--
don't wait until the mail comes,
full of better deals, and introductory rates.
Don't wait until the gurney begins to roll, 
and some sensible doctor gets a hold of you, making you sign things,
agree to things, and do things, on Wednesdays, when his office is closed.

Listen, life never turns out the way we pictured it.
Quick, before we crumple with age,
before our fingers curl back at us like strangers,
dropping things,
lost and pissing our pants a block away from home.
Promise me
that you'll always love me.

Then we'll finish our pastries,
and walk hand in hand until neither of us can tell anymore
why we came this way,
or how we managed to stay on our feet without each other.
That will be enough for me--
I give you my word.

For Karin's mini-challenge at Real Toads: Promises