Not Quite Still Life

Little Girl In a Blue Armchair by Mary Cassatt

This is Miss Cassatt, Child
She has brought her paints
She's here to do your portrait so
There best be no complaints

Sit upon this wooden stool
Do not make a fuss
Be a little angel and
Do not embarrass us

But Mother, dear, this stool, I fear
Is really much too hard
I'm tired and I'm bored
I want to go play in the yard

Don't be so fresh! You listen now
Or else I'm going to scold
Get yourself up on that stool
And do just what you're told

Perhaps that big, blue armchair

Might be a better fit

I'll even let my doggie come

To be in your portrait

Okay, I'll try to sit still but
This dress, it makes me itch
It's stiff and hot and pokes me
I can feel its every stitch

Stop slouching, Child, you've wrinkled
Your lovely little dress
And get that pout off of your face
This portrait's such a mess!

submitted for Poetry Potluck 44, Painting Whispers, at Jingle Poetry

The Critic

image source

The critic gives a bad review

Another play won't get its due

"The leading actor tried too hard

He isn't worthy of the Bard!"

The actor's back on waitstaff crew.

The painter unveils his new work

Our man critiques "It has a quirk!

"His recent work is amateurish!"

Dismisses it with a flip flourish

Walks away with a smug smirk.

The critic loves to boldly bash

The new composer's piece-"It's trash!

I couldn't stand a single note!

The woodwinds bleated like a goat!

I'd prefer to hear cars crash!"

The singer gives it all she's got

The critic says, "Her voice is shot!

She shouldn't be up on the stage

At her geriatric age!

Bring on a girl who's young and hot!"

The writer publishes his book

Reviewer barely takes a look

"The plot is dull, the language stale

This author's work will surely fail!

One more word I cannot brook!"

Others' work the critic judges

Their successes he begrudges

He lives only to berate

For his own art he can't create

Through such a hollow life he trudges.

submitted for Poetry Potluck-Muse, Art, Music, and Poetry at Jingle Poetry

Thank you Jingle for all of these awards!!!       

London Daydream

image courtesy of James Rainsford

Touchdown at Heathrow

London love affair is born

Oxford aspirations

West End wishes

Topped with chocolate sponge pudding

 Her rural southern roots

Confine her

Like a prisoner in a tower

She dreams of escaping Underground

To emerge speaking the Queen's English

"Stop"? 

Oh no. She's just beginning.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry
also for Poetry Potluck-Favorite Things

Bubbe's* Gift

* Bubbe is a Yiddish word for grandmother. When I was seven, my grandmother,who loved to read and to write, gave me the book 101 Famous Poems for my birthday. I have it to this day.

My love of words began my seventh year

A small green book you pressed into my hand

 And though I was too young to understand

I knew that it was something you held dear

Into those magic poems I would peer

The distance between you and me was spanned

Your writer's mark on me you left your brand

And to this day I always keep it near

Because of you a truer voice I found

You taught me how to write from what I live

You taught me to observe the world around

You taught me how to listen for the sound

I read your words wrapped up like gifts to give

Each time I write, to you I will be bound

poem submitted for Poetry Potluck

Thank you to Jingle at Thursday Poets Rally for this award!

Beauty Is

Thank you, Jingle and Poets Rally!

I went to look for beauty today

I needed to see that it still existed

After a morning of encounters with ugliness

     foul words spit at innocent people

     a father yelling at his one year-old son

     a long, headache inducing waiting room purgatory

And dates with distress

     too much blood

     that suspicious lump

     one more test

     and just one more, just to be sure

Fled to the grocery for something pretty and tasty

And found the fish wasn't fresh

And the gossip was stale as well

But the kid in the check-out lane cracked a lame joke

And it set us all to laughing

And for a moment

Everything seemed beautiful.

submitted for Thursday Poets Rally, week 39

Does This Cape Make My Butt Look Fat?

You've heard of the Hulk and the Fantastic Four
The Norse God of Thunder with hammer is Thor 
Superman's strong, and he flies - what a bore!
We hormonally challenged women need more!

We need a hero to fight for our needs
One who is tough and who never concedes
Ladies, my efforts may just be last ditch
But I bring you our new hero now:  SUPERBITCH!!!

I am no Batman, I don't wear a cape
In sweatpants and robe I will make my escape
There had best be a phone booth to which I can dash
To rip it all off when I get a hot flash!

Iron Man's hands can shoot rays through bad guys
When I'm angry, I shoot rays right out of my eyes!
My glare is more scary than you've ever felt
And I have a scowl to make Iron Man melt!

Spiderman may climb the walls to attack
But SUPERBITCH will climb all over your back
Aquaman swims and can hold his own breath
But I will hormonally rant you to death!

So bad guys, villains, jackwagons, take heed!
Before you engage in that next irksome deed
There's a new superhero, I'll say it again
Her name's SUPERBITCH, and she needs estrogen!

submitted for Poetry Potluck, Week 24

Hate Has a Language

Hate has a language all its own
We learn it well when we are young
Those bitter words spit from the lips
Do battle with our mother tongue

Masha was Mary when she left the boat
A new name given for a new land
Still she was teased and called "greenhorn"
By a father she couldn't understand
Hate has a language

The lady asked Bubbe how we spelled our name
Is that  "-son" with an "e" or an "o"?
I just wanted to play in the pool
But they had their quotas, ya know
Hate has a language

Why is my Daddy chasing that man
And why did he call him a "kite?"

Why doesn't Mom think it's funny too?
They explained it later that night
Hate has a language


submitted for Poetry Potluck Week 18

Thanks, Jingle!

Status Migraine

She swallowed the pills and said goodnight

It hurt too much to even cry

She closed her eyes against the light

She counted her breaths, her chest so tight

The bed, her nest, on which she'd lie

She swallowed the pills and said goodnight

Tired of fighting the noble fight

Confronting her nemesis eye to eye

She closed her eyes against the light

Blurred edges between wrong and right

It made no difference, so why try?

She swallowed the pills and said goodnight

She prayed in vain, in pain, in spite

Her body was weak, her spirit dry

She closed her eyes against the light

Her mind a blank, a board wiped white

Again another small death she'd die

She swallowed the pills and said goodnight

She closed her eyes against the light.

(submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 37)

Thank you Jingle for the Perfect Poet Award for Week 37!

for Week 38 I nominate    
http://exitsbyalice.wordpress.com/

Travel On

 
Travel on, restless one
Seek your fortunes
Find your gold
Save your maidens
Slay your dragons
Be brave, be bold.

Travel on, restless one
Climb your mountains
Reach your peak
Cross your oceans
Tame your jungles
Know you're not meek.

Travel on, restless one
Your journey waits
You must fly
You'll find your treasure
Back at home
It is I, it is I.

submitted for Poetry Potluck, week 17

Thanks, Jingle!