"beaded" poems
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom
For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.
Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.
We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.
Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.
Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.
But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,
*The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath*
Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.
Why just men?
I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know. end.<nml>
Jan 6, 2013
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
♪♫♪♪
Your beaded snakeskin loincloth
strung beneath humid palms
cool rippling breeze that calms
our hammock hung under thatch
what a catch . . .
your Amazons running into my Congo
lost track of my bongo
back about one mile
from the sources of the Nile:
your jungle smile.
Restoring all celestial things
deep within your tropical clearings . . .
flowing slowly, going loco
at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;
shake your nut-brown biospheres
and banish all my worldly fears.
Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill
insects trilling a sinuous thrill;
the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***
the witch doctor hungover in his hut
while our little fire smolders
near the mountains of the moon
—or are they only boulders?
Come soon
Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
Bent
Near to breaking
by her burden
of fruit, swollen with seed
In that thrashing by wind
Bearing down on the sun
in her labor—
of Need
to bear
the pain
to bring
her yield
to his hands—
her harvest
of warm juicy softness
___
Gone—
the upright
reach of untouchable spring
When stems, stern and smooth
wore a lace-beaded bodice of bloom
of coral chiffon
First leaves
a scarf
with a fringe of lime green
wrapping her gifted and lean
to the buzzing
She was lighter than dew
to the amateur insects
smeared with her
Her only accessory--
a robin
They had left
as evidence
they had ravaged
its song
___
Now broken and leaking
more damage endured
Ripe fruit in rough hands
He leans against limbs
by his weight sternly pressed
so suffused in the fragrance
of peach intoxicants
which he will have--
He is lost to his lust
He is forcing his need
into another year's beauty
asserting his claim over and over again
of that lost and ancient bounty
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
I treasure those nights of unexpected surrender
when hands molded
caressed
and made me tremble
waking from slumber with body afire
as he inched gradually into me
bathed in my welcoming heat
one palm curled protectively
'round the weight of my breast
as finger and thumb drew on beaded peak
and breath caught in my throat
as his full depth was reached
unable to remain still
rocking back to achieve a deeper sink
his sudden hiss scalding my neck
teeth worrying my bottom lip
neither willing to move
afraid it would all end too soon
and as the flames continued to rise
groans replaced whispered sighs
no hurried pace or rapid ******
slow and sensual movements
dragging us ever nearer the edge
denying that final release
drawing closer but holding it back
sensation heightened beyond bearing
until that fraying tether breaks
causing walls to tighten and quake
drinking every last drop of his lust
clutching inside and out
desperately seeking his mouth
sealing the cataclysmic moment
heart pressed to heart
breath to breath
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 6:54 AM UTC
Braided brushed tied up
the princess and her jewels
hair fair platted with history
servants standing by swords ready
gold hats seamed silver pulled tight
with silk ribbons and scarfs full beaded
this is a Viking girl astride her war horse
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
I’m knitting something new,
it feels good.
The new ball of yarn unraveling like time
but I’ve still got plenty left.
There’s potential in this dark teal wool
and satisfaction when I decide
the way I want to weave it.
I make mistakes, I change them
to become part of the pattern.
The stitches are like a song in my head,
I sing them, I tap them out with my foot
and whistle along to the tune I’ve made up.
I thought it might be a hat when I saw the skein
but now I know it will be an
infinity scarf.
My six inches of beaded rib is a metaphor for my worries.
Working my hands intricately help me forget them.
I have time.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 9:35 PM UTC
Squeeze your feet into synthetic fins.
See the world in big rubbery lenses.
Don’t forget the snorkel, of course! Bite tight.
Hobble to the shore,
Where the two worlds meet.
The sea splashes gently on the sand.
It hurls itself forward
And then recedes back.
Its motions are like gestures,
Telling you to draw close
And closer.
Its peaceful surface is an invitation itself,
Painted blue and glittered with sunshine.
Accept the invitation with gladness.
Don't be afraid!
Let the briny waters embrace you.
Let the cold tickle your skin.
Let the waves rock you back and forth.
You have entered a grand ballroom
Illuminated with a majestic chandelier of refracting sunlight.
The colorful corals with shapes of mounds, disks, and crowns,
Sway with the rhythm of the current.
The fishes dance around and about,
Each beaded with scales of various vibrant colors.
And then the reef ends.
The colors abruptly plunge into a black abyss.
Look down and allow yourself to be
Filled with fear, terror,
Or maybe
Insatiable curiosity.
Now let that curiosity stir discontentment in you:
Discontentment with snorkeling.
Let it ignite a craving for
More thrill, more wonder.
It's time to go deep sea diving.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
Blackbird
shadow death
witness
the spiraling
madness
glide
silent over
once vital beehive
shorn gray
paper thin
sip
raw honey
hardening
in the merciless
heat
nourish
the suffering
concentration-camp thin
jutting bone
slack skin
reflect
the boundless light
of a shield
wrought from
love
honor
these golden
futile gestures
they are not
infinitesimal grains
Blackbird
with beaded sight
testify
*do not avert
your eyes*
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 9:42 AM UTC
~~~^♡^
black light posters
lava lamps
purple haze
and mega amps
bright **** rugs
in pink and green
long straight hair
or Afro-Sheen
go ask Alice
how time flies
starships blast off
In her eyes
yellow ribbons
in her hair
Vietnam
Scarborough Fair
beaded curtain
leather n lace
brains are gone
without a trace
Mother Mary
let it be
flower power
love for free
you can find
a cause to bend
but it's hard
to find a friend
psychedelic
music blasts
what was "groovy"
now the past
soulsurvivor
5/10/2015
~~~^♡^
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
What can you say about Pennsylvania
in regard to New England except that
it is slightly less cold, and less rocky,
or rather that the rocks are different?
Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there,
whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse
is not easy to tell, so quickly
are human efforts bundled back into nature.
In fall, the trees turn yellower-
hard maple, hickory, and oak
give way to tulip poplar, black walnut,
and locust. The woods are overgrown
with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier
spreading its low net of anxious small claws.
In warm November, the mulching forest floor
smells like a rotting animal.
A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky
is soft with haze and paper-gray
even as the sun shines, and the rain
falls soft on the shoulders of farmers
while the children keep on playing,
their heads of hair beaded like spider webs.
A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities
whose people palaver in prolonged vowels.
There is a secret here, some death-defying joke
the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply-
a suet of consolation fetched straight
from the slaughterhouse and hung out
for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce,
where the husks of sunflower seeds
and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd
the snow that barely masks the still-green grass.
I knew that secret once, and have forgotten.
The death-defying secret-it rises
toward me like a dog's gaze, loving
but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black
slumped between its two polluted rivers,
warmth's shadow leans close to the wall
and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
5.4k
My old great-aunt Elaine with her withered hands gave me $200 and beaded handbag
"This your mad money," she told me, as we sat on that nursing home couch, "And it ain't for your purse. This goes in your shirt, where only you know you got it."
The assisted-living nurse chuckled to herself. They got along, my great-aunt and her.
"Why?"
"Cuz if you get angry," she said, in that Marlboro-raspy voice of hers, "And you gotta go, you walk out on your date and you leave 'is *** And then you got your money for a strong drink. And your cab."
The nurse laughed
My aunt re-situated herself on the nursing home couch. Elaine Dauterive. Her mind was going, and so was her health, but she was as regal as a queen on her throne in that moment
her fire-red hair, ungrayed, was her crown
No cape as royal as that sleeping gown.
"Don't you think for once second I can't take care of you, honey," she said in that creole drawl, and I knew what she meant
Because even after she'd gone I would have that mad money
All stuffed in my bra for when I needed it
Because she was older than time, for me, seeing things like
The Great Depression, World War II
What I read in history books
I'd be ****** if I took what she said with even one grain of salt because Auntie-Lane, I'll be ****** if I don't love you
And I know you're on your way out and
I'll buy you whiskey in the afterlife with some of that $200 cash that you busted your *** scrounging up for me
Southern hospitality at its finest
And those liver spots redder than wine adorn you like badges of honor for all of the years you've endured
My elder - creole woman, with a soul as fire-red as her hair, breathing more smoke than air
My old dragon
On a pile of gold: her mad money
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Maid in China
she was my ayi in Shanghai
a diminutive young lady with a beautiful smile
tough as nails though small and shy
everyday she would walk a dusty mile
to cook and clean at my whim
and bathe my tense body of beaded sweat
after working out at the private gym
her mastery of sponge I would never forget
her soft hands and pale skin a visual treat
her dark hair and eyes that glitter like an Asian moon
large Persian towel there to dry my feet
offering me a taste without the use of spoon
she was my maid but more my lover
though her duties she refused to dash
she had pride like no one other
her naked body shown thru undone sash
I sweep her up and take her in my arms
carry her to my bed of silken sheets
for hours I avail myself of her charms
with rice wine and candied sweets
her kisses sweet and always select
the beauty of her warm wet ******
she knew the ways to keep me *****
she was my perfect maid in China
Gomer LePoet....
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Ainhara is standing in her Queen's room,
staring at the door that leads to
her chamber
'My Lady...' she thinks worried before
looking at her reflection. Her mistress had
surprised her a gift of a finely made dress
of rose-silk, making her a flowing vision
in blue.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The dress is suitable for the bright and
hot morning, light, airy and delicate
with one shoulder that is heavily beaded
with peacock feathers; the slit reveals
her slender legs, the hip appliqued with
the white lilies of her Queen's Kingdom,
and simple flat shoes.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Her fiery locks are pinned into her usual
bun. It is then that she hears a gentle
knock on the door which she approaches
and opens.
"Did you not hear the command of the
Queen Mother?" Ainhara gently hisses,
"Queen Lyn is not to be disturbe-"
"I know, Lady Ainhara, I apologise,"
a guard whispers as Ainhara stands in
the hallway.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"How is Queen Lyn?"
*'Drained and exhausted. She has not slept
well in three days...* "The Queen is very busy.
She is determined to complete the tasks set to
her." Ainhara sighs. "Esshi is overseeing her
meals currently. Did her mother not say all
matters of state should be brought to her?"
"Yes she did, but the shipments are set
to arrive today. And she said that once
they arrive, I am to notify you.
They have made way to the Western
Entrance."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"I see. Well, let us see to it."
"Yes," The guard bows and leads the
way with Ainhara at his heels.
As she passes the open stain-glassed
windows, the cool breeze hit her,
making her dress flutter behind her
and the beadery shine and glitter.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
4.1k
The devil's speech say they:
Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry.
Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air
Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades
Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam.
That charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
In the coughing desert
Not a thing dares roam
Neither wind nor creature
And neither stick nor stone.
But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek -
The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying
"Tell me, thou innocent,
Why feel you special and best?
For when all is done I take you
And return you to my nest;
Your world is bright and happy
Full of high spirits and song,
Though soon you too shall step aboard
And join my faceless throng."
Hot saliva on the heaving engines:
Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched.
Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting
Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses
Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth!
From that charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
That dark train cries out and all around
A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog-
Bleak and yellow it obscures the land
Seeping out insidious in strange locales all:
The old lonely fisherman
Sleeping on his wharf,
The frustrated hawker's
Windblown barefaced booth,
Silent streets crying for attention,
Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye.
That solemn train cries out and all around
Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog
Calling all to upright attention and fear.
Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window
Slowly closing cold dread claws-
Naked numbness dumb as ice-
Cold dread claws upon thy waist.
And you,
You poor old thing,
Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones,
You never had any chance!
You were only human.
You were only human, you poor old thing.
Barreling on with brimstone slang:
Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub!
Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh
Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw
Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet
That charred old shell so terse,
Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse,
Is all that gives meaning to our every gain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
The darkness of the earth
And darkness of the sky
Are distinguished by the lines
of beaded light
that run across the edges of our eyes.
The steering wheel twists
Listlessly between the lanes
Of sleep and gasoline dreams.
The beauty of blank minds
is seen only in reflections
From the rear view mirror.
Our pavement demons
Sear in a stranger's headlights:
The Berlin wall stands re-erected
out of trees intertwined
With the night.
The circulatory glow of red,
bright against the black asphalt,
our driver's lullaby.
Seas of blindness illuminate
The distance wheels can fly
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
I swirl the loose skin
of my forehead like the swirls
of stars, in weariness of the world.
My lashes beaded with drops,
from the shower that I was to tired
to dry, blur my vision like the floating boat clouds which blur
the moon to a
wisp
of smoke.
I lie, wet in my towel uncaring that
my body is forming a silhouette
of shadowed dampness on
my bed.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
Eros
In my soul
Taking my breath
Thrumming in my heart
Eros
In your touch
The flitting-fondness of skin to skin
Sweat, beaded-trickle down
Salted flesh
Curly topped, flayed on satin
Eros
In your taste
The sweet tangle of tongue
Twisted-cheeky
Raspberried laughter
Eros
In the presence of your wit
The clever-confines of your mind
Depressed-displacement of your thought
Sophia
Eros
From one being to another
Thundering
Chaotic in my breast
Burning my throat
Scalding-stinging
Across the distance
Eros
In the silence of contentment
With arms wrapped
Smooth
Held close to the rhythm of your light
The hammering of blood
Pacing
Pitter
Patter
Sluggish-slowing
Lull of sleep
Eros, even in my dreams
Σε στιγμές σαν και αυτές που φέρνουν μου όλου του κόσμου για να γονατίσει
(In moments like these you bring my whole world to its knees.)
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
Sitting in a restaurant
Over a cup of coffee
And silently having our dinner
With hardly anything exciting
Either to brag or blather
My eyes got hooked
On the occupants of the table, next
Two kids, seated on small chairs
A boy and a girl, obviously a pair of twins
Adorably cute, their father, so young
Who having placed the order
Were in wait for their turn
Carrying a tray, as the waiter arrived
With something of the plainest kind,
Small cartons of French fries,
Bottles of sauce and plain ice cream
The little faces gleamed in excitement
Their beaded eyes riveted,
And their heads bobbed in happy approval
As their Dad opened the carton
And placed before them
French fries sprinkled with some sauce
The children, sprang to their feet
With an upsurge of delight,
Jumping up and down,
Clapping their hands and shouting!
At a small distance, sat we
‘Solemnly’ consuming our meal
With nothing to titillate our palette
Or excite our toned nerves
I thought;
How, in course of time,
Everything becomes a routine ritual
And what stark difference
Between our subdued composure
And the overwhelming excitement of kids!
They haven’t learned yet
That such open expression of emotions,
Is not in keeping with accepted norms
To what peaks of joy, they get catapulted
With mere trifles and silly baubles
While we remain ever at the bottom
Unable to be lifted up
Is this what we call aging?
Or is it
The death of spring
The summer’s dirge
Autumn’s mellowing
Or the chill wave of winter’s blast??
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
The dream haunts me
often, far too often, building
in intensity but is initially
disguised in absurdity and the
nonsense of a young man's lusts
with an old man's deficits.
This woman-like entity,
ill-defined at first but forming
voluptuously, emerges from
swelling curtains. She moves, more
levitates, toward my bed, buoyed
by what I don't know, but angelic-like
it would seem. Or perhaps
an Aphrodite reincarnate?
Oh this goddess, what pale
skin, as Parian marble, full bosomed,
jutting ******* ***** that
beckon, nearly drool, and pursed
red lips beaded with sweet
juice stolen from the wild cherry
tree beneath my window.
Far too much clarity for a simple
dream. But such a dream! And what
seething testosterone I feel!
I am become a hedonist, raging,
pulsing spermatozoa, renewed
of time and youthful energies.
Nerve into nerve we join, ecstacy
compounding ecstacy, bodies wantonly
impaling the other on this love bed
to the result that each cell of our
individualities melds. We are indistinct,
yes - as one, and any ****** impulse
between us is shared to the point of
utter exhaustion, depletion. I am
nearly drained of life, it would seem.
Then, as it always must,
the scene changes, Act II.
Inexplicably, shedding a ******
serpentine-like skin, she slings it away
and drops limply upon me - entirely
skeletal, dry cartilage, sinew, lifeless,
sexless, motionless. The horror
of a diabolical hollowness
stares through me, and I am
suspended, fully terrorized, in
this paralysis. So, this is
succumbing to the Succubus?
God, my dear God, that I should
never dream again!
--
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
You have carved for yourselves a home
in the crooks of my arms,
where the beats of my chest come steady,
in the spaces reserved for my 2am thoughts,
your laughter echoes over and over and
my dreams have turned red, yellow, black.
I don’t know much science, but I do know
that no thick-rimmed, burnt-brow whitecoat
could have formulated a theory
quite like the night when you told me:
God breathes in your mountain.
Speaks morse code in the night skies.
Tastes like clear, running waters.
Dresses you in deep browns, floating gold.
Smells like first harvest, grass just rained on.
Honest and wide-eyed, you tell me it’s
all too intricate, all too alive
to be woven by a wooden fingered god.
Your tongues dance the languages
that you’ve conquered but not colonized.
I am unafraid of stumbling on their steps
when I am held by hands that build bridges
where walls have been torn down.
You have always sent me shaking,
crying, braver,
with how you,
wake to gunfire instead of alarm clocks,
choose to wield pencils and paints and bamboo song,
how you,
who have seen the flesh of your flesh
wrapped in a red not made of beads or cloth,
walk hostile streets with your fists and prayers,
hearts welcoming a shattered sky.
How you,
have never met strangers
without bombs in their back pockets,
yet aren’t afraid of my nakedness
sharing soap, sharing soup
with you,
a people,
our people,
my people.
Born of sun, born of earth
beaded bodies native to heaven,
your eyes constellations, maps
for the lost feet
finding roads to forgiveness,
finding roads to forgiveness.
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 9:48 AM UTC
the sweltering muse
ringing like crackling
shimmering hue
of pearls lost
of beaded consciousness
to look me in the eyes
pearl-less and cast
aside under the parent
orb of silver moon,
a violin careening,
weeping like the thrill
of dragon scales,
magnificent and noble
yet isolated in the rubble
harder to find a hand
about the fog and mildew
crumbling pieces of tragic
memories, reminiscence
of all the hours I wait
dwelling without haste
among the lone tree tops
see you on the dark night
with owls swaying in the blue expanse
again, once again
it's going to be tough on me
pearls withstanding beauty
and clarity,
scattered into the clutches
of oblivion
falling asleep in restless dreams
the day they scattered
bring back joy and happiness
when I find the will
to settle my shaking hands
to refine the beaded necklace
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
blue dress- it is soft, it shapes around your chest like it's supposed to be there, and you begin shaking with no end in sight
white feather earrings- your face is softened and you remember you don't want to be soft
blue beaded earrings- they match your dress and your dress makes you want to die
bird earrings- they are small and bright and you curl up on the floor and wonder which parts of you are real
moon and star earrings- they are small and pale and no one but you can ever see
sun earrings- you shiver and don't think anything
blue crystal earrings- they are the strongest form of feminine you have ever had, and you remember buying these from a street vendor, holding them like some strong piece of the world belonged to you
peace symbol earrings- they are small but familiar enough to be recognized and you feel sick in your throat, your face, every part of you that accepted peace is aching, you want to tear it out
blue stones and dangling silver hoops- these make you look like a woman, which is a familiar future you have been told of, and you realize just because you understand it doesn't mean you want it
dangling iridescent gems- these make you look like a girl, she would love them on you, and you decide to give them to her before you remember she's changed, now you don't know what to do with them
warm colored striped dress- it shows all your bones and still makes you look so soft, you are so, so cold
black feather earrings- these feel like how you used to try to be strong femininely, both of those at the same time, and you tore yourself apart for years not understanding why it was so hard, blaming yourself
black beaded earrings- these make you look like femininity comes easily to you, as you wish it didn't, these seem to belong, as you wish they wouldn't, and these are so heavy, just like everything about this, you are still shaking
silver rose studs- these are small, indistinct, you remember being familiar with this small amount of femininity you thought was necessary, and you twitch violently, something itches, you are hunched
black pants, shirt, jacket- you have a body, in the most abstract sense, and now no reasonable person could call it what they wanted
spider stud- it's small, looks metallic, and delicate yet menacing, like you never could be
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 4:44 AM UTC
There was a homeless lady,
one afternoon, outside the hospital.
Was she homeless? I don’t know.
She had a ladened shopping cart,
which, on TV, is kind of a signature.
We were inside, waiting for an Uber.
She was outside, in chiaroscuro relief.
Dressed in bright, multilayered, mismatched
florals and brocades, she reminded me
of a gypsy. There are still gypsy caravans
in France. Are there gypsies in America?
She wore boots and long strings of beaded jewelry.
They would have had to have been glass, I supposed,
but tinseled with the glitter of those pop spangles,
she looked, en bloc, the richest and the poorest of us.
She wasn’t young and she wasn’t old. She sat alone,
on a short retaining wall, her cart within guarded reach.
I noticed her because every time I glanced over, she
was watching me with the dark unblinking eyes of a bird.
She had an easy confidence, in the wild, sitting safe
and protected by her clam, obstinate shell of boredom.
What must I look like to her - with her tangled hair
and unwashed face? Me in my permanent pressed
hospital wear, diminished by over-washing. A doll
behind glass, whose whole life is patterned by plans?
Our Uber pulled up, the number matched and as Lisa
opened the car door, I gathered my things and looked
back but the gypsy lady was gone, leaving a blank space.
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 10:29 PM UTC