Concerto for two trumpets in C

While Vivaldi played,
we said unflattering things about my ex-girlfriend from earlier that year.
There are kinder creatures living under rocks,
so if we talked her down
she deserved it and a ticket out of town.

"Did she make you come?" you wanted to know,
ever the ethereal philospher,
like Vivaldi, priest and composer--
and I told you no, no she did not.

Vivaldi was born in Venice,
borne by water and the Divine spark,
but you, 
you are as Turkish as a crescent moon and star.
The English tucked their tails and fled Gallipoli
because they saw you foretold.

When I talk this way, you roll your eyes.
You say,
"Not everyone thinks I'm as wonderful as you do, Shay."
Fools. I can't account for them,
and anyway,
you look so smug even as you deny.

I am as slow as the four seasons,
inhabited by movements and tempos beyond even my own reach.
There are rigged carnival games easier to solve than I am,
and besides,
I have always been more fascinated by the sorceress's candles
than by common fireworks.

You level a look at me, dark-eyed and not bothered
with Christian ceremony or habitual reserve.
"Come here," you say, not harshly, not sweetly.
"Now."
Venice is known for festivals and lights, as well as its canals--
sometimes a new arrival takes the old city as a challenge,
taking her time,
finding her own way,
walking on water as Vivaldi plays.
_______

for Marian's challenge at Real Toads.

 




 

SHY

I'm just a bashful lady poet,
dainty if I'm anything;
so shy, so proper, so reserved,
composing my delicate renderings.

I never speak above a whisper,
a flower I am, so pale and pure;
modest, that's me, with skirts to my ankles,
fragile, obedient, slight and demure.

Brassy?
Not me.
Try Hedgewitch
or MZ!
______

55 words (including the title) for the ass-kickin' G Man!

photograph: Cristina Scabbia

Find impudent Hedgewitch HERE and brassy MZ (Mama Zen) HERE !

The Catalonian

Never let a botanist paint you.
Never look to a Catalonian for fun--
he'll invite all his old college chums over and make a castell in the front yard,
while you lean in the doorway sipping green tea,
and hoping with jaundiced eye for a strong wind.

Do me in oils, is that so hard?
Worship me like a deity.
Take me to India to ride in a gondola on the back of an elephant.
Shower me with orange saris and ornaments.
Stop vendors in the street to tell them,
breathless,
that I am your girl and how lucky can one man be?

Instead,
you lean over your microscope like a Times Square boy,
getting hot about molecular structure.
If we went to India,
you would leave me by the dusty roadside with the luggage
while you go off collecting needle-flowers
and plant-borne rashes.

Never love a botanist--
you will only be a bright accessory.
Posing, naked,
a sweet rich-souled gorgeous woman in her glory;
all he will see is your face as a sampaguita flower,
your raised arms as bracts,
your faint-making perfect nipples as odd berries,
and all of it to be collected and catalogued
rather than ravished.

Never share a miracle with a botanist.
Never expect garlands and gifts for your news,
or Hosannas for your hormones.
Unless you couch it in terms of locules and leaf buds,
he will give you that blank, myopic look
and you'll have to hold up the plastic branchlet you've just pissed on and say,
"Pink, daddy. Get it now?"

Always leave a botanist,
before you turn into a trifoliate of disappointment, frustration and murderous intent.
Extracted from Catalonia, he is an invasive species,
and he will destroy you, the fading native.
All botany is a ritual of seed and pod,
but you can reclaim your animal nature and run.

Take your child, now,
while they're busy with their stupid castell.
Raise her right.
Nurture claw and canine,
speed and cunning,
and teach her which creatures
are inedible,
bitter,
and best left alone.
________

Catalonia--a region of northeastern Spain. Catalonians are said to be very practical-minded. 

castell--a human pyramid. This is a popular sport among Catalonians.

This poem written using words given to me in a special edition of Flipside Flotsam!

Girl

I am just some girl--
the leopards in the tangled garden know it;
they stalk and strut and do as they will--
respectful of the nasturtium,
but careless of the quiet jonquil.

I am someone with just one desire--
the crows in the glassless greenhouse know it;
they pose, clothed black as priests entire--
denying me the morning glory,
but free with the thorns my rose requires.
_______

Nasturtiums--victory in battle
Jonquils--returned affection, sympathy
Morning Glory--love, affection, mortality
Red Roses--deep romantic love, passion 

"Flowers" by GoldenMistPoet

"Flowers" by GoldenMistPoet

My garden explodes with much the petals, happening

Image! To colorful, the sun on its bicycle

Rides rainbow unicorns.

My heart the popping wow with rivers of passion...

Truck!

Elephant!

Oh, disease of love!
_____

(This poem is linked with Palsied Poets' Prank Phone Call, Jumble Word Head Injury, Sex With Llamas day 4, and Poetry Poop week 79.)

Comments:

Pink Eye said: This is fantastic! Here's mine: http://mymonkeyfacedkids.blogspot/ode-to-jello

Mist My Plants said: Great to see you at Jumble Word Head Injury!  

Prinjit Bollywoody said: So the good! How much dowry are offering does?

TooMuchSugar said: Wowwwwwwww!!!! OmGGGGG!!!! FanTAStic!

Prof. Richard Hedd Phd said: The allegory here is weak, and the exposition is dreadful. Please sign up for my fifty part instructional seminar. Syllabus and rates available at my blog Smog Balloon. Sign up and receive a complimentary embossed gold-leaf copy of my poem "From Whence The Trumpet Of Triton Blows", my epic poem which was published in the October, 1967 edition of Smudge College English Department Notes, pp 47-92.

YinYangGangsta said: thank for your coment at my blog. Yours is relly good!

Loboto-Me said: I like unicorns.  I believe they are real.

My Lips Hurt said: nice...smiles....kind of, i dunno....flowery...smiles...

Tom the Troll said: hi. r u into rubber fetish?

KickMe said: I read this and cried! it is the most beautiful thing I've ever read in my life! I even showed it to Weepy, my parakeet! We both cried! Then we read the back of a cereal box and cried! Wow!

There's Something In My Ear said: You continue to amaze me. This is just so brilliant and deep.

Fair Is Wheel said: I think that when you talk about rivers, you really mean roto-tillers, because your writing really gets below the surface. Or maybe you mean rapids or rabbits or something.  Or maybe you just need to pee.

Mirror Ball said: this is about me, isn't it?

They're Coming To Take Me Away said: Each brilliant line of this makes me shiver with delight. Email me. I want you to join my Writers' Gulag. Aliens stole my spleen. Try my meme!

Rhyme Time said: cat. hat. shat. haha.

Oldfatguy said: is that your real picture?

Jumble said: Very moving and heartfelt. I didn't really read it though.

Fireblossom said: this comment has been removed by a blog administrator
_______
 

Lightning Tree

When heat meets high,
hail is what you get.
Cold comes down to earth
Like a hard kiss.

Any woman who loves a Gypsy
sets her heart out in the wind.
Your girl's got the sunset eyes, doesn't she,
and the widow's peak you like.

I wouldn't want to tell you your business, girl--
keep dancing like the lightning tree in a gale;
call the sky closer and see what you get.

Turn the tables, sister--
read the five rings on her right hand.
Gold, for when she feels fine and satisfied.
Silver (moonlight) for when she's dreamy.
Turquoise (water) for when she moves in the mystery.
Brass, for when she's bold and her words burn fast.

The fifth is made of bone, with a ruby stone
for when she feels passionate and broody,
a bryndle spirit wrapped in Old Country colors,
a moment's flame between low ash and high smoke.

But you know, don't you,
it is her left hand, held behind her,
that will snap or sate you,
and stir the storm through the ice-white jasmine either way.

_________

for Monday Melting #22. I used the word "slap". Wait. No I didn't. At the last moment I changed it to "snap". The voices told me to do it.

If some of this poem sounds familiar, it is because I was working on it in my previous post. 
 

A Little Scribble and an Honorable Mention

At flashy fiction, RJ Clarken asked, "what color are you?" I combined this with the largely blue mosaics of Isaiah Zagar as photographed by my very dear friend Daryl Edelstein at Real Toads mini-challenge, and here is the result, a humble little poem to have come from so many ingredients, but I hope you'll like it.

The second poem I wrote some weeks ago, and entered in a competition in which I am told it received honorable mention. Everyone's a winner, baby. At any rate, now I can post it here. The labels at the bottom are for the second poem.

"Thin Air"

I am gold
behind the cat's eyes.

I am silver
inside a drop of rain.

I am red
in the heart of a strawberry.

You can't see me
though I am right in front of your eyes.

I am blue...
blue...
as an empty sky.

___________  

"Offering For The Moon"

After the last time,
I said that I was done.

Lies had slept in the mouths of every lover I ever kissed,
And so I have leant lazy against silence, since--
Like a cat tail drowsing easy at lake side.

To give one's self, naked, to someone else
Is to lose one's balance,
And falling down the sharp shale wash
Is not flying--
I have become, now, more basin than bird.

Still,
We have known each other for a long time,
As each star knows both light and darkness.
The moon may be mad, but never lies,
And so, for you,
I trust;
For you,
I love;
For you, my heart offers itself
Beyond falling and beyond time.

________