"aprons" poems
Old friends & new couples
Barista aprons & vanilla poppers.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Pretty Little Cup Cake Store:
I walk through the door.
Somehow I think it will
Cheer me up.
A white iced-pink sprinkled cupcake
Will help me forget.
While unwrapping the trendy black and baby blue doted baking paper
Will bring back the past again.
But, even I know it is a ruse
A joke I play on myself.
You know the owners are some super hot soccer moms whose family invested in their latest project.
Those **** bakers with pretty white aprons
And size two retro-pink waitress uniforms;
Smiling and cooing at the lavender infused cake
That makes this treat go down so smooth.
A gluten-free icing with a garnish of kumquat.
This will land their pictures on the local news.
I am not a size two.
I will just as soon eat a nutty-buddy by Little Debbie
But, this trendy cupcake cafe, makes me feel I am one of those
Pretty ladies in the retro pink waitress uniform.
Kinda like a celebration, for a party of one.
I am not a hot pretty stick chick
I will buy four, five or six of those pretty cupcakes.
Pretending I am buying a hostess gift.
But, the truth.....
My husband forgot that we married
8 years ago this day.
I will pay too much for too little product: but the cake box is cute
I will sit in my car
Eating, till my teeth hurt.
I will rationalize; that I will cleanse tomorrow.
I will go home.
He will ask how I am, while staring at the TV.
"Shussh" he will say, "I'm trying to hear."
There is no use to remind him
He will play the tired "I'm-in-the-dog-house game."
I prefer stuffing four, five or six pretty little cupcakes
Into my mouth then listening
To his tired apologies, weak little lies and false promises of a planned
Surprise.
Instead; I will go to my room; then my private bath:
I will stick my fingers down my throat
And cough up my life.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
'We were killing pigs when the
Yanks arrived.
A Tuesday morning, sunlight
and gutter-blood
Outside the slaughter house.
>From the main road
They would have heard the screaming,
Then heard it stop and had a view of us
In our gloves and aprons coming
down the hill.
Two lines of them, guns on their
shoulders, marching.
Armoured cars and tanks and open jeeps.
Sunburnt hands and arms.
Unarmed, in step,
Hosting for Normandy.
Not that we knew then
Where they were headed, standing
there like youngsters
As they tossed us gum and tubes of
coloured sweets'
5.3k
The inadequate bookshelf that sat near the door
that my sister used to call her own was
mostly made up of adolescent reads,
books better suited for preteen girls rather than
intellectually budding young ladies—
juvenile vocabularies and simple, non-complex
plot lines do little to craft and create
worldly, knowledgeable women.
I thought I must spring clean the
naiveté away and replace it with
the works of great authors like
Sylvia Plath
Simone de Beauvoir
Virginia Woolf
Margaret Atwood
Betty Friedan;
ingenious femme fatales that cut down
to the brittled bones of the misogynists
and burned their marrow along with the
ashes of bras and aprons and 350 degree oven heat.
Growing up, to me, seemed like a wonderful epiphany
chock-full of ideas and opinions and
clever, ironic remarks that chased satirical witticisms
like felines to rodents and wolves to deer—
being an adult would guarantee me a say,
a vote
prior 1920’s America
play dress up as a suffragette
women’s rights
femininity personified by dolls in plastic houses.
To be eighteen-years-old,
the goal, the legality, the bright light at the end of the tunnel;
the official womanhood it would bestow upon me
seemed like something almost tangible
with the way that it loomed over my head.
Get good marks
graduate high school
travel back in time sixty years
meet a nice boy
become a “good wife”
have dinner ready by five
bear two beautiful heirs
clean up the messes left in the kitchen
fast-forward to the twenty-first century
go to a good college
find a stable career
settle down if the fancy strikes you
live non-docile and full of passion—
the parallelism of times are severely
di
lap
i
dat
ed.
1950’s America would never be a home for me
because I am much too wild to be contained.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
219
She sweeps with many-colored Brooms—
And leaves the Shreds behind—
Oh Housewife in the Evening West—
Come back, and dust the Pond!
You dropped a Purple Ravelling in—
You dropped an Amber thread—
And how you’ve littered all the East
With duds of Emerald!
And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars—
And then I come away—
4.6k
Wisconsin, fine--
We sit on state lines.
Across the street, Rodeo Drive.
Move a little bit
and East L.A. makes you feel alive.
Go to the diner
where the mermaids wear aprons
and hold out menus like personal stock.
Where the surfer-rama drama in the diner deep
allows them to let go of those they keep.
And you and me and those we love,
keep us finite, because why not.
I could tell you how to eat your waffles
if you will be the spoon that stirs my coffee.
Listen to me,
"Rachel, there's no one, right now,
that I'd rather sit and eat breakfast with than you.
And if it doesn't work out,
and we choke on our meals, that's fine.
I just want to try when I'm with you."
We exchange glances
and I'm sure, then,
that I adore the aplomb,
for your smile leads myself
into believing and being more.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
MANY things I might have said today.
And I kept my mouth shut.
So many times I was asked
To come and say the same things
Everybody was saying, no end
To the yes-yes, yes-yes, me-too, me-too.
The aprons of silence covered me.
A wire and hatch held my tongue.
I spit nails into an abyss and listened.
I shut off the gabble of Jones, Johnson, Smith.
All whose names take pages in the city directory.
I fixed up a padded cell and lugged it around.
I locked myself in and nobody knew it.
Only the keeper and the kept in the hoosegow
Knew it-on the streets, in the postoffice,
On the cars, into the railroad station
Where the caller was calling, "All a-board,
All a-board for .. Blaa-blaa .. Blaa-blaa,
Blaa-blaa .. and all points northwest .. all a-board."
Here I took along my own hoosegow
And did business with my own thoughts.
Do you see? It must be the aprons of silence.
2.2k
A young lady sashays across the kitchen floor .. Displaying a stunning , red Ball gown , beaming , contrarily to an fro , eager for a compliment from a proud seamstress . A fidgety young boy , hand -me -down jacket with slacks being tailored , patches cut , hand sewn at worn out knees ..Darning Papas socks , repairing a tablecloth , custom curtains , flour sacks made into napkins , aprons , quilts and handkerchiefs . A wicker box that belonged to very gifted hands indeed
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
the great arches and naves and little whimsical
corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr!
I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad
you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory
instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the
shape of those stones piled and carved for you to
dream over and wonder because workmen got joy
of life into them,
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and
praying, and putting their songs and prayers into
the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones
and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of
women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad
you're a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between
Brussels and Paris.
1.9k
The long white curtain is still hanging on. The baby still
sleeping somewhere in all of that. I don’t mind
a thing. I don’t mind at all. See how slow and good
it can be? He says and points to my gizzard. The one he
insists upon me having. The same one I have given up insisting I don’t.
I’m addicted to the pith and gaff of his arguments,
how stalwartly he rows them down the narrow
passage of our trying not to hurry banter. I curl into the slow
lilt of how he doesn’t mind strolling around inside of promises,
like Burt showing Mary Poppins another chalk Paris. Look! A
riverboat! Lights and parasols. Pretty lovers laughing on the prow.
We’re both still wearing your T-shirt
inside the stewpot dreaming we do between sex. Aprons
and porches, babies and waterfalls.
The kinds of props you bandit from other people’s dreams.
Shorthand for lovers, with an hour to prove they exist.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 7:12 AM UTC
Go, my friend, to Tbilisi, where the War of Roses was won. Run the mountainsides and fall into the canyons of lapsed eons. Sunk in the valley wide, past huddling of trees that open and yawn, sprinkles a misting of sunny, dewy rocks where a certain party of gypsies gather. You will only find them there after the picking of the cherry orchards, and if they welcome you, they will feed you their cherry soup. It will intoxicate, but no more than the captivating dance of cherry stained aprons you may be privileged to witness. Dark haired and dark eyed sultanas, ****** from healthy eating and laboring, do motion a curvilinear spell. Band with the men of that tribe, if they will have you. Let them choose for you, a server of cherry soup. Though cherry season is short, your life will lengthen.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Entering a world composed of surreal images
My mind must twist itself into difficult yoga poses
Attempting comprehension of the madness
Black aprons meander in rhythmic gyrations
Under harsh soul stealing luminescence
Lubricated with coffee to perform
Menial machinations miserably
I am but a tourist
On their macabre island full
With nightmarish denizens
Of this local purgatory
The poet dreamt of no circle
As dreadfully inhabited as this sinister strata
Easily a septante of sins sordidly succumbed to by soulless citizens
Apathetic arrogance masquerading as hospitality
While decency and morality are assaulted
According to the overlords abusive schedule
I am struck mute with paralytic paranoia
As I hurriedly set my offering upon the altar
And search for exact change
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
Baby boomer farmers tailgating Carolina red apples ...
Engaged in whittling , rocking beside a powder blue Dodge pickup ..
Mother hens in white aprons selling cocoanut cakes and peanut brittle .
Bluegrass pickers drawing a small crowd , children feasting on corn dogs
with Rock candy tucked away in their shirts ...
Funnel cake fragrance on joyous September nights ...
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
I lie with my arms folded on
A white sheet spread over an iron bed.
My bulging eyes sit over my reddened face,
I am ruined; I am dead.
*Then I see them, they’ve come for me!
Clothed in crystal, flowing white.
They look down at me, coldly,
And I look back at their unblinking eyes.*
I’d waited for it; I’d fought for it-
And now that time has arrived,
Of my freedom, abandonment,
My true birth, after this fickle life.
But then I see more men around me,
Invisible behind their aprons and masks.
They remove the killer rope from my neck,
And a finger traces along its mark.
And so, I lie on the iron bed,
Lifeless, but not soul-less,
Surrounded by Angels and humans,
Both of whom had arrived on the occasion of my death.
*Take me home! I lift my translucent arms
And plead to the Messengers of Heaven.
I don’t want to stay and see my body being
Split into halves, divided into fragments.*
*“But how can we, so easily,
Rid you from your life?
You made the mistake of doing that,
Of which no man has been given the right!”*
As the Angels speak, the scalpel starts
To burrow into my skin.
Deftly my flesh is peeled away,
Revealing my organs of vitality within.
My heart no longer beats.
My blood no longer flows.
My lungs no longer fill with air.
My anxiety to leave suddenly grows.
*O Angels from the bountiful Heavens,
You do not know how exhausting life can be!
I’d got tired of breathing and gave up,
Because God too had given up on me.*
*So, liberate me now and take me
From where I came and to where I belong,
Where questions are asked and justice is done,
Where the rights are weighed against the wrongs.*
A hand enters my open chest,
And forcibly pulls out my heart.
And just then, the Angels too relent,
And wrench my soul and body apart.
Angels and humans scavenge over me,
On my spirit and flesh they together feed.
But I’m happy, because morsel by morsel,
From the shackles of life, I’m being freed.
*I’m finally out, I look back slowly,
They’re stripping my face off my skull.
I look ahead, and float away in thin air,
No sign of my existence remaining on the Earth.*
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
we were held together
by name tags and aprons,
cold air catching in our lungs
and warm cigarettes burning
between our shaking
finger tips
"guys it's 12:05"
didn't sound much
like a fact,
more like a suggestion
there was no outward
celebration
filled with
champagne
high heels
and a television
but a pensive
awakening
filled with
eye rolls
dark laughter
and light sarcasm
I thought about how
at this time
two years
earlier
I was trying
on a variety
of fake smiles
infront of the
bathroom mirror
in Amy's basement
well it's been
a while since
I've felt the need
for red lipstick,
even longer since
I've worried about
the stains it might
leave on my teeth
I guess we let the seasons
change with a distant sense
of apathy but even when
we can't feel the change,
we know in concentrated
recollection that not a
single thing has
remained the same
still, we hesitate to say
that anything is different
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Very soon after the storm they found paint drops on the sea floor.
Scientists in starched aprons looked puzzled at graphs and lab lights.
The tea cups rattled on their saucers for sixteen days
and widows opened windows once again.
The poles turned their magnets off,
and captains wrecked their ships on rocks.
They broke the silent news, he’s dead,
whilst school boys patiently made their beds.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:17 AM UTC
Ethereal Theories and Rituals
By Rosicrucian's and Masons
And The Knights Templar
Secrets whispered in listening Ears
Bound to Silence by unknown Fears
Symbolic Accoutrements Adorn
Compass, Cross, Aprons and Horn
Secret Rituals done in Dark Shadows
Robed Members with Incense and Candles
Perform ancient Tomes with Canticles
Reciting Century old Chants of Words
Enarmed with Pike Shield and Sword
Perpetuated through the Centuries
All Carried out in total Secrecy.....1/19/15
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
Tarmac blood in
a ribbon vein,
running on top
of a French landscape,
sunshine and no rain;
a scar I like to call the D338.
Sunflower crowds that
move together,
follow the Sun as if
loose feathers in the wind.
Doorway women squint
into the sky,
their aprons tied tight
to their waist side pockets,
deep with recipes scribbled on paper
and the keys to their acre
behind the family's tin pan roof.
Settle your back back into your seat,
strap in to keep in line your broken spine,
keep concrete eyes on the foundation skyline;
for this is the road that sits upon an alter, the holy shrine of France.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
they came around
this early morn,
asking for you
they always do,
check in regular,
especial in the now
disharmonious waking times,
ever since you checked out
a different path,
your own,
wanted a kitchen
with no His aprons,
where you were
chief chef,
braising simmering, shucking
of your own choosing,
and the cooking accessories
were yours, initialed,
so you stated
in your
'so short, so long' note,^
a trifling amuse-bouche,
for me to consume,
for you,
to be amused by...
so long,
now soloing,
duo thing wasn't working,
two sopranos,
in one kitchen
trying to out
high note each other,
a creatively strange way to say
I love you but,
I am Top Chef
thus is the human way,
to err for what we want,
to err for what we had,
err for what we now need
and the long and the short of it,
long for...
the smell of your voice,
the song of thy fresh creations,
wafting, enticing and now
in hind-sighting,
mesmerizing me awake from
loving bed to contested kitchen
now I only sing and cook professionally
which is another word for mechanically
the voice,
thine cooking smells,
cinnamon and cardamon
that resided in our skins,
check in,
looking for refreshment,
have none to offer....
ever since,
we were
so short, so long...
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
My mind gets filled
Thinking about bergamot
And windows above
The kitchen sink
Aprons and herbs joining
Hands, brewing tea
Happy rain, calm seas
Ancient ferns and sprouting trees
Cobblestone walls, wooden beams
My mind gets filled
Thinking of peace
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
During that winter
We experienced a blizzard of crippling misfortune
Cold misery mounted our souls
And we carried it wherever we went
Filled with shame and strokes of bad luck
We were put into a hypothermic coma
And pushed along by careless snowplows
Forced into the drive way aprons of the rock salt streets
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
degas’s dancers fell through neural skies,
i heard a song more dream than anything.
shocklines tore through my lungs,
my eye, it caught the sight of a beast.
let’s gift a narrative to the naive;
the sweet hollows of a saint that sings,
the dear juvenile darlings in dusk,
the broken boards of willow bark,
let these memories sway a cynic.
when the ones you love tear your home to pieces say “thank you”, bow your head;
only rest when they are gone.
your cousin creates ripples in your life that are angry and violent but well meaning.
you will lose two matriarchs and the sound of reified royalty breaks into low noted hymns.
they've turned to the death you sang about.
the kindest ghosts are the ones you are afraid of,
they only sing when you clasp hands over ears,
they only dance when you pull the covers over your head,
they only fade when you love them.
the ghosts whisper:
you have things to learn from broken hands in coffins,
that the world isn’t pretty unless you make it so,
that a home full of love means the same thing as a mansion,
that death looks like floral aprons and old mirrors.
van gogh though that he was a vile wretch,
and you think the same because
you forget that you can bleed yellow.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
The days of your infantry
Where all things were always the same
When all eyes were always on you;
Your days when you ****** from the bulging
******* of your mama,
Your days when your glorious promises
Glittered like gold and diamond
Your days of joyous innocence are long
Gone.
You became of age
Your strengths and might
Threaten your mama,
Your Papa couldn't stand your stubbornness
Your friends had to leave,
You're now call Orisa
Ebora ti n fi eje s'omi mu.
Whenever your mama question your arrogance
You turn the road down-upside
Up the fairy flame of fire
She was roasted alive while we all stood and watched
We could not even grace her a goodbye party
Then your Papa died a horrible death
They said Sanponna struck him,
Some said it was Ayilala.
Bode Saadu,
Ogun, Eesu,
Pleaded on our behalf
Yet, you remained unquestioningly wicked;
When you are happy and you want us to rejoice
With you,
Your banquet is hosted in the village square
Where sun is the special guest of honour
The lid of the pit of hell is uncovered
And the demons would pour out with aprons on their necks:
The event is never much different
-Down the tankers, Up the fairy flames of fire -
Now, your days are grey
Still, your rage is same
You know no forgiveness
You have no compassion
At dawn, the children called you orphan
At dusk, they were roasted like your mama
Everyday we wake with the fear of the unknown
Yet, we cannot stop paying our homage at the
Cemetery near your play ground.
We groan in the chains tied around our necks
And in our agony, we hope that someday, maybe
Your evil days will pass.
But, for now we call you Bode Saadu,
The land of the unknown god.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
a canary escaping the confines of its cage
yellow feathers floating, swirling, landing softly
like snowflakes on a child’s nose
wrists twisted, handcuffs broken
chains released, a neglected gem out of the shadows
potential unlocked
scars washed vigorously with soap
the marks of unfair ownership
faded yet never completely gone
sewing needles replaced by pens
aprons interchanged with suits
no longer silenced
free
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC