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When my mom first thought that I was gay,
She and my father sat me down at the kitchen table.

I was fifteen and thought I was in love,
And all they could do was scream at me...

‘You’re a sin; what you feel isn’t natural.’
‘Where did we go wrong?’

And all I had wanted was to love in peace.
But apparently, that was too much to ask from them.

So I stifled myself.

I cut myself off from her and let us wither
Until there was nothing left of us because
I wasn't normal
And I was fifteen
And all I wanted was my mother’s approval
And how could I gain that if I wasn’t normal?

And then I was sixteen and I thought I was in love again
But this time with a seventeen-year-old boy
That knew nothing of love
And everything of sharp edges and even sharper words
But he spoke so pretty to me,
And how could I resist?

But he hurt me worse than anyone else that I’ve known
And he never even cared…

And then I was seventeen.

I was seventeen and my best friend had this mane
Of beautiful hair and I called her lovely and wife
And all the other silly little pet names that high school girls do
But little did she know that her smile
Lit fireworks inside my brain and the swarms of
Butterflies that beat in my chest rivalled that of a drum.

I thought she was beautiful.
I saw the universe in her.

But how could I admit that to myself without admitting it to
My mother, the one person whose validation I crave like
Air and water and life itself?

How could I admit to her that I wasn’t
Her little girl anymore?
That I was a disappointment?

And then I was eighteen.

I was eighteen and numb and not looking for anything when he found me...
I was eighteen and I thought that surely,
Surely
This was it, this was the feeling that I was waiting for.

But it wasn’t and I was eighteen and alone again
But this hurt worse than the others and then I was gone after that summer.

Now, I’m almost nineteen.

I’m almost nineteen and I’ve accepted the fact that
I will disappoint my mother;
The one whose opinion that I value the most;
The one that gave birth to me;
The only one that can tear me down until I feel like nothing.

But she’s my mother so how could I let her go
When she was there for my first word and my first steps
And every one of my other firsts.

My first date.

My first dance.

My first breakup.

She was there when I left for college, and she’ll be there when (if)
I get married.

Because regardless of my choices,
She loves me, and she always will.

And even if I can’t bring my partner home,
I will love her all the same.

So mom, if you see this,
I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I didn’t turn out how you wanted.
I’m sorry that I disappointed you.

But I’m not sorry for being who I am.

I’m not sorry for thinking women are beautiful
And men are handsome
Because all the world needs is a little bit more love,
And who am I to deprive it of that?
An apology to my mother, who may or may not see this...
judy smith Feb 2017
In this age of global uncertainty, clothes have become a kind of panacea for a growing number of consumers. Designers are responding to the political upheavals of the past year by injecting some much-needed humour into women’s wardrobes. Browns CEO Holli Rogers is already predicting that spring’s sartorial hit will be Rosie Assoulin’s smiley-face T-shirt. This cheery number, which reads "Thank you! Have a Nice Day!’" neatly sums up the jubilant mood of the coming season.

The logic goes that turning up the dial on the fun, the colourful and the crazy is the sartorial equivalent of Michelle Obama’s "when they go low, we go high" mantra. We may not be able to control the chaos of world events, but we still rule our own style.

It’s no coincidence that a cartoonish aesthetic, of the sort you’d find if you rifled through an eccentric child’s dressing-up box, was in plentiful supply on the spring/summer 2017 runways. Alessandro Michele’s army of Gucci geeks displayed growing swagger in garish get-ups that ran from fuzzy crayon-coloured furs featuring zebras to tiered, tinsel-y coats that rivalled Grandma’s Christmas tree.

It was a similar story at Dolce & Gabbana, where sumptuous eveningwear was loaded with pasta and pizza motifs, and drums became bags, while Marc Jacobs tore a page from a psychedelic colouring book, covering clothes with the childlike scrawl of the London illustrator Julie Verhoeven. Even ardent minimalists would have to admit that these playful looks have potent pick-me-up power.

For Anya Hindmarch – whose empire is built on feel-good fashion – all this frivolity is nothing new. "An ironic, lighter and more irreverent approach has always been my thing. People love beautiful objects and increasingly, they want to show their character – that’s the point of fashion," she says. "Customers today are more confident with their style. There aren’t so many rules. It’s about putting a sticker on a beautiful handbag and not being too precious about it."

What’s surprising is who is consuming this cartoonish style. Though there’s no real rhyme or reason, says Hindmarch, often it’s older clients who are investing in the maddest pieces – like her cuddly, googly-eyed Ghost backpack that has also been spotted on Gigi Hadid and Kendall Jenner.

The same is true of the customer for the Lebanese designer Mira Mikati’s emoji-embellished styles. Though her fans run from twenty to fiftysomethings, at a recent London pop-up one of Mikati’s most ardent buyers was an 87-year-old. "She tells me that whenever she wears my clothes people stop her on the street. They smile. They start conversations. She literally makes friends through what she wears."

Mikati began her career as a buyer, co-founding the upscale Beirut boutique Plum, before launching her own line some four seasons ago – largely out of frustration at the sameness of the mainstream collections. "I wanted to create something fun and colourful but easy to wear – that you can add to jeans and a white T-shirt, but that’s also a conversation point."

Her clothes, worn by Beyoncé and Rihanna, are certainly that: pink parrot-appliquéd trench coats, scribble-print hooded tops and dresses clad with a family of monsters who spell out her Peter Pan ethos in scrawled speech bubbles that read "Never Grow Up’" The antithesis of normcore, these designs take their cue from her children’s toy trunk and the Japanese pop art of Takashi Murakami – who returned the compliment by donning one of her patched bombers.

Mikati is clearly onto something. According to Roberta Benteler, who founded online fashion emporium Avenue 32 in 2011, it’s the cartoon aesthetic that’s really piquing women’s desire right now.

"Anything that looks like a child’s drawing or a toy sells incredibly well," she says. "Brands like Mira Mikati, Vivetta and Les Petits Joueurs inspire the impulse to buy because they’re so eye-catching. You have to have it now because there’s a sense you won’t find it anywhere else."

The exponential rise of street-style stars and the social-media machine that now propels the fashion industry also plays a part in the popularity of these playful looks.

"Designers are creating for the online world and customer," continues Benteler, who cites the Middle Eastern consumer as a big investor in these niche eccentric designs. "People find escapism in fashion and more than ever they need something to cheer them up. These are clothes that stand out on Instagram, and for designers that translates into sales."

In practical terms, in an effort to beat the warp speed of high-street copying, designers are differentiating themselves with increasingly intricate and artisanal styles that are harder to mimic. Just because these pieces have a childlike sensibility doesn’t mean they’re not beautifully crafted.

"My aim is create a handbag that you can keep as a design piece," explains the accessories designer Paula Cademartori. One of her most successful designs – the Petite Faye bag, which comes in a whole rainbow of configurations – takes more than 32 hours to create at her Italian studio. "Even if the styles are colourful and speak loudly, they’re still sophisticated," says Cademartori, whose brand was recently snapped up by the luxury goods group OTB. It can pay to be playful.

One man with a unique insight into the feel-good phenomenon is Marco de Vincenzo, who combines his longstanding role as leather goods head designer at Fendi with creating his own collection. "When we first created the Fendi monster accessories for bags we were simply playing around," he says of the charms that still loom large some three years on. "The most successful designs are created without pressure, through play."

His own-line debut bag features an animalistic paw. ‘It’s about creating something new and different for women to discover,’ he explains. "You buy something because you love it, not because you need it. Fashion is like a game – it has to excite."

When it comes to distilling this childlike abandon into your wardrobe, take cues from super style blogger Leandra Medine, who balances madcap pieces, such as her first collection of colourful footwear under her MR By Man Repeller label, with plainer, simpler ones. "It’s all about wearing your clothes with joy, and having fun, but not looking ridiculous," says Cademartori. "You don’t want to look like an actual cartoon."

It’s advice that chimes with that of Anya Hindmarch. "I love the idea of wearing a super-simple Comme des Garçons jacket and a white shirt with a really fun bag to mess it all up a bit." It’s a failsafe formula for dressing your way to happiness.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Abby Feb 2014
Is this what we've become?
Scarcely a word all week,
two full sentences mar
the perfect lines:
"morning"
"Morning"
"Pleasant night?
"Eh.  You?"
"Eh."
"Good luck."
"Same to you."
The monotony of the academic realities
rivalled only by the monotony of conversation
as days go by with only those
exchanges
deemed necessary:
"Night."
"Night."
Because really,
we don't know how to talk anymore.
The Triple L Apr 2021
The touch of a hand,
The warmth of another,
That precious tickle,
That burning feeling inside,

Living flame,
Dancing throughout my garden.

The garden I cultivate for you,
A field of crimson, the purest red,
It is your colour, a sanctity, a shrine for you,
This garden, my life’s passion,

A never ending field of Lycoris Radiata,
Growing inside my mind.

Temples and palaces,
Cathedrals and castles,
The works of generations,
They’re all incomparable to the garden I grow for you,

Thousands of year in worth of work, the species’ finest art,
Rivalled by the Eden I cultivate for you, the moments it took for my garden to grow.

Problems are non existent in the garden,
Yours or mine, I can no longer tell,
But I know for a fact that they cannot grow here,
All that grows is the Lycoris Radiata, swallowing all other forms of life or death,

That is, before the deluge,
Before the moment you walked into my garden.

Before the moment you entered the realm I constructed for you,
Before the moment you graced the garden with your presence,
Before the moment you shattered the illusion of grandeur,
Before the moment you trampled the finest of the Lycoris Radiata,

The death of my garden,
The collapse of my life’s work, that somehow lasted mere moments.

But it’s okay,
I didn’t want the field of crimson anyway,
I didn’t want the garden of Eden,
You snake.

I hope you know I hate you,
Because now I’m growing hydrangea,
And it’s going to be the most beautiful garden on earth, lush and green and all for me.

By LLL
A poem about me feelings for someone. The inspiration comes from a picture of spider lilies.
Come and gone, the calm
but the storm is far from over
it lingers in the what-ifs, and taunts
us from the fringes of maybe

This storm, will eventually pass
and the memories of love gone
reborn as odes and psalms
birthing life, from their flowering decay

The poet's capacity to love, rivalled only
by their ability to suffer, but
what a beautiful misery it is! as it lies in wait
for the moment it will flood from pen to page

Laughter and sonnets, will perch on sated lips
after sadness has run its course
and for awhile, all will be well again  
leaving poets to ponder love's mysteries

How ironic it is!
the way lovers leave, repelled
by their hatred of the very thing
that once drew them near

You see, poets are like paintings
beautiful from afar, we are
but flawed strokes on cracked canvas
the closer you come

Yet still, there is beauty in our flawed and fragile array

We are the words within our poetry, but
we are so much more than sweetened syllables
we are everything you wanted once, and you
**never even made it past our cover
A repost I wrote for my bror, Sverre G. Holter after his recent breakup.
a May 2015
air
the air smells light and heavy simultaneously.

a lingering smoke from last night's fire desperately rivalled
with the aroma of the birds and trees, and all the
other carefree things.
such contrast, but such harmony. inhaling causes you
to become a reactant in the production of pseudo-chemical
tranquility.

the air is heavy and light simultaneously.
Faisal Al-Doori Sep 2015
When Spring visits me every year
I pluck his roses
Spring bids me farewell with a fresh green smile
But this year
When I plucked my roses
Spring bade farewell with a crimson smile
I asked of course, “What happened?”
He replied, “The Stars fell off their perches
They had to look for new orbits
The silver moon was denied her colour,
She wore a purple suit.
The sun shone both as timely and untimely
But swore never to set.
The sea rivalled the tops of mountains
Its waves so fierce that
The wind, not to be deterred by land or sky,
Allied with thunder and lightening
To burn the lofty trees.
The land was estranged from the feet of dancers then,
But today, it is thrilled by the first
Beat and the full swarm of bright flute voices.
The land now opens its heart to receive
The bodies of immortals.’’
"I am yours and you are mine until the day that we both cease to exist."

I cherish these words like how martyrs hold crucifixes close to their hearts
Only separated by a wall of bone and flesh
I keep these words fresh
By reiterating them every morning since you left
Their poetic tone makes me long for your voice,
Your warm breath and your soft caress as we lay in my bed
Chaste, no acts of lasciviousness or mundane carnal lust
It was just us.

Do you remember when we first met,
How your voice that rivalled thunder bellowed as you fell,
How you appeared as a flash of lightning that failed to destroy
For grace ground zero is pure creation and no other choice,
Or how you took the likeness of my form
And as you said to an awestruck me
Using typhoon from your lungs and a canyon deep voice
"I am an angel of the Lord."

Yes, you were an angel
—As the windows to my soul followed the water dripping from brow to knife-edge cheeks
To course through first man's downfall to nestle where collarbones peek
I could not speak for I was transfixed by your androgyny
Or is it just that the symphony of celestial applause silences my throat
And the low heavy notes of thunderous cause muffles all when the Heavens cried for its children lost—
I agreed

You stared at the distance, admiring how your brothers and sisters met ground
As they used natural phenomena as a facade
Like how Rameses decided the last plague in Egypt long ago
Is angel-kind disguised
Ending the lives of a thousand slumbering children at night
But this coming of the Heavenly Host was different
You came here not to deliver seven plagues nor fortnights punishment
You came to know what it's like to be human

Do you remember how I was dumbfounded,
As I, a testament of how flawed a creation humans are, hear this from perfection,
How I witnessed in your eyes Cain's mistake,
How I saw you make your first steps in disobedience
That will lead to a series of consequences that you said you would cherish,
A road of pain, suffering, and anguish
Or how you told me that you long for human emotions
And how you envied the mouth that bit the fruit in eden?

I still remember how I fell in love with you
How you told me that the weatherman on tv was a false prophet
And that he had changed the weather himself
How you told me every being in the universe that became one of your Father's favorite
Showed similarity with Heaven's most wanted
How you, in veil of night, moved from my living room couch
To sleep by my side
To roost on my bed

Every night I held you tightly in a warm embrace
Close to my heart like how a child holds a blanket reminding him of his mother's calming face
At morning jet skies remain as you stretch your raven wings
Gale winds push forth to ******* away,
Bedazzled by gleaming feathers astray
You are a monument to beauty, a greco-roman statue
Obedient to the Maker, chiseled, stone cold, perfect.

Obedient to Him you were,
He called for all of His children, including those who have fallen
To fight a wargame against Hell, Avalon, and places unknown of name and origin
And you, you headed His call
You again summoned a storm to conceal your true form;
Titanic, terrifying, and phantasmagorical with a hundred pallid furnaces etching the surface of your rock like skin
And in that moment I knew I lost you to Him
Because you said "I am an Angel of the Lord, now and forever."

You said those words using typhoon from your lungs and a canyon deep voice
And as you raised your hand
To an act of God approaching fast,
I lost your warmth to skies unrest
Your memory a dead man's switch if I let go it will detonate unstable emotions
I begged you to play me like harp strings because my heart seams to
Unravel, remembering from Earth you did depart
Knowing I could no longer feel your warmth.

And it came to me,
Angels are not the cloud-jumping-perch-on-your-shoulder kind,
They are monstrous warriors
With the Word of God tattooed on their hundred feet bodies
You are soulless automatons built for war yet you still loved me
You told me stories of alternate realities and distant galaxies
Elegies to dying stars and civilizations in jeopardy
But never again can you tell me...

I still remember how an angel came to me in a dream,
Told me you died defending Heaven from the enemy
Told me that your last words were for me:
"I am yours and you are mine until the day that we both cease to exist."
And since angels are soulless they cease to exist when they die
I cried myself dry, regretted the fact I once had an angel in my life
Whose grace filled me with warmth and whose wings comforted my lonely nights

I still remember how I realized I was human
And I, with those cherished words
Can buy myself more time, buy our relationship more time
For me to be yours and for you to be mine
You may have faded into nothingness but I have not
So until I call out to you using my dying breath
Until the last second in my deathbed
Until my soul's eternity in its infinite Heaven...

I am yours and you are mine, as simple as that.
Read more of my works on: brixartanart.tumblr.com
Sharnna Mar 2016
Pinks, purples and blues;
A bubblegum daydream;

Warm breeze wrapping around;
A gentle hug for a slow beating heart.

Incandescence a faint memory,
A gentle hum in place.

The smell of freshly new ironed clothes.
The inhale of perfume; enveloping and a long exhale escapes lips.

The sweet sound of birdsong and the calm that nature brings is easily rivalled by you darling,

I am home.
Thought of this earlier because the sky was nice
NicoleRuth Jul 2015
Growing up I never had any pets
My adorable baby brother grew to be the centre of all attentions
My parents were way to busy working
Keeping us afloat
To pay attention to this skinny dreamy girl
I've been to crèches
Where the owners 18 year old son used to hit me
I've sat at the doorsteps of my house
Hours and hours
Hoping the cook would let me

Home lost its appeal
I saw it as a place to live
Not a place to love
Loneliness grew to be my closest companion
My dreams and troubles too complicated
For the simple minds of 8 year olds
12 years later
Things have changed
I've grown into a woman
One I could someday admire
But the 8 year old hasn't left
The one who craves love
Who sits by the doorstep of faith knocking
Begging for the strength to hold on

12 years later we got ourselves a tortoise
Marco the solitary explorer of our house
He was not mine to keep or love
A birthday gift just for my brother
But he grew on us all
Bringing out slowly the love we had long since locked away
In my recent months of hiding
He became my companion
Someone so tiny
Who could never speak
Yet listened so intently when I spoke
Whose curiosity and laziness rivalled my own
We had a understanding
A relationship
I was always careful with him
His tininess terrified me
I've hurt too many in the past
Not this time I vowed

But I ******* it all up
Early morning routines passed in a hurry
My selfishness got the better of me
As I hustled into another work day
And just as I lugged my work for the day into the next room
I felt something hit my foot
And a squeak that turned my blood to ice
There he was
Hidden inside his shell which lay upside down
Time slowed down to seconds
As I rushed to set him straight
Praying he was okay

And even though my mom says he's okay
I can't get rid of the guilt
That painful squeak runs clear in my mind every passing second
I don't deserve him
I could have killed him
I almost did
The problem is always with me

I'm the hurricane of insanity
Of fuckedupness redefined
I could have killed him
I almost did
Jacob Haines Jul 2016
There was once a boy who climbed a tree,
searching for a long lost treasure of his.
He spied it on the horizon,
lying in a muddy ditch.

He took his guilty shovel in hand,
and booted it deep into the soil until he came upon
what he assumed was his prized relic.
The look on his face rivalled the look on hers.
Longing can sometimes lead to the strangest of discoveries.
-- Nov 2017
An impish dweller of
sunless times, but a Guardian
of the monsoons within which
our thoughts raced as fast
as lightening did across the wet
patio tiles and those pouring black skies.

My brothers, they smelled
of grass blades,
of sun-ripened wheat.
But I smelled of barren
waterlogged dirt, sickly and twisted
with sour veins, but left flowering
a heavy rain-sodden smile.

Only now as I sulked
in years, ruminating,
fermenting,
I grew sullen.
Sapless and fruitless, I sought
the meaning of your touch and devotion.

For, I grew no roses,
sung no sweet scent,
sank spines and dried sympathies...
But you stopped
a moment,
And your cheeks
teased my petals with warmth
that rivalled any sun.
No greater wielder of nature than the nurture that dwells within love's idle caress.
André Morrison Feb 2020
I always have to face away from the sun
Her light; I betray
Can't face the shadow of what I've become
Out of sight, out of disarray
The number of days I spare to pray
Is only rivalled by the days I don't fare well; like today
Steven Deutsch May 2016
Inspiration

It blew in against the tide
with so little fanfare
that it startled the longshoremen
who had taken to rust in the salt air.
Smiles of self-congratulation
rivalled the blaze of the setting sun.
“To patience and perseverance,”
trumpeted a hanger-on
who had practiced neither.

Tonight, all along the shore
the scritch of pencil on paper.
Atticus Jun 2019
I left my house again today
                                                                               much like the day before

Followed the trodden path of my memory
to the gates, I swore I would not enter any more

                                                        Your waiting hand was gone like that                                                                    
                                                         of the promises of a father who won't         come home

Grounded in place, the cast iron gate creaked and rattled with a passion that rivalled lovers who live apart

Forgotten I stood in the garden of our hearts
prone and lifeless

Yet I cannot let the letters go
the letters with "return to sender" in vibrant red ink

The letters that once tied us together
one human being connected by a delicate thread like that of spider silk

If I were to let you go and lock the cast iron gate with a heavy rusted padlock
it would mean locking away the parts of my soul that help me feel and connect
when will the yearning I have for you disappear, will it take years?
I honestly don't know.
but the stolen glances we share are an indicator of what we still feel for one another
Ophelia Jan 2018
You are a bittersweet memory of a person I used to be,
Whilst you are painted in colours of vibrant blues, purples and greens,
I am washed out browns, greys and blacks,
All the colour I have in my life,
are nothing rivalled to all the colour you have in yours,
The strokes of cardinal, splashes of purple, and the accents of yellow,
Are too good for me to compare to.

You are the lilac sky,
The delicate breeze,
The falling rain,
And the precious dandelion that I am afraid to touch,

I am the feeling of dread,
The thistle,
The dull grey sky,
And the wilted flower you step on by the sidewalk

I am nothing compared to you.
Rob-bigfoot Oct 2021
The radiance of a raisin-hued sunset, mmmm begs to be devoured,
Surpassed only by the sun-kissed swish of your hair,
Freeze-dried mouse **** takeaway coffee, yuck never savoured!
Liberate that unwrapped shiny percolator from its cupboard lair!

A risen sunrise, nature’s soufflé, how delicious!
Matched only by your uplifting starlight smile,
Tooth destroying shop cakes, rock-like and dangerous,
Shamefully neglected family recipes, go on worth a trial!

A silvered-moonrise over a dappled seascape,
The equal just, of the bewitching tint of your eyes,
Inappropriate Use Of Capitals, Sadly There Is No Escape,
Poor education or the tyranny of Media Ignorance I surmise.

The magnificence of a frosted night, behold a starry-symphony!
Rivalled by the musical grace of your dance-like movements,
Other people’s mobile conversations, ill-mannered cacophony,
Full of their self-important pompous little moments.

The surreal eerie calm after a summer thunderstorm,
Mirrored by the eternally sunny charm of your blessed being,
The despicable litter of our fellows, their squalid pitiful art form,
From self-respect and consideration, perpetual fleeing.

An enchanted stroll through aromatic Springtime pastures,
Joyously refreshing, worthy reflection of your beautiful soul,
Sad humourless beings, their perennial blank-eyed gestures,
Barren and wasteful, a merciless lifelong own goal.

© Robert Porteus
Started as random jottings in my notebook. Not too random I hope! A theme that I can return to.
Matthew Scott Harris...ARG

This, a near imp
     possible mantra to apply
when this 2009
     Macbook Pro went awry
triggering this enduser
     to experience tidal waves of high
anxiety, which besieged this fie
foo fighting dirt po' pa well nigh,

who might need buy
another laptop, yet my
anorexic checking account
     on life support, no lie
could not afford, (to sigh
phone even one red cent,
     all because ordinary healthy
     electrons deployed aye

did NOT see usual expected
     predictable apple luck
     quiche *** activity via my
left and right eye,
yours truly did not espy
usual kickstarting linkedin magic after
     preliminary electronic setup
     unexpectedly failed to start -

     no idea why
unbeknownst tummy, what
     ghost in the machine didst defy
programming code of honor,
     whereby pixel display
     unexpectedly exhibited "abnormal"
computer behavior -
     like a turncoat ally

meaning one hoop wrest
     illegally start button signaling
     subatomic warfare unleashing - guy
did missiles as taught
     during routine training
     to turn bot tin down stevedores
     loose on the Jobs (dan-g) rather, I
watched slack jawed,

     as that very singularly narrow
     vertical lined band width
(analogous to a medium black
     sabbath tipped magic marker)
     did NOT display
     prestidigitation instantaneous flash
     demarcating binary DMZ
     (demon mailer zone,

     viz dividing screen in half, -
     versus top to bottom array), qua
     incomplete automatic
     initialization stopped
     partway thru automatic preparation,
     after which cryptic
     error message appeared,
     which malfunction found me

     bursting with ****** tears,
     and ready to cry,
(which gush of tear
     rivalled Hurricane Florence),
     cuz mechanical and/or
     application so much

     of my creative
     write minded person
     (reed literary) self choked life vie
ability to live, thus the only alternative
...insane asylum to apply!
--------------------------------
SPOILER ALERT...
postscript: after some fluke brought
desk top in view, the quick thinking
chap attached an external drive to a
USB port, and thus breathed easier
knowing a backup got made.
in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
recorded July sixth nineteen sixty
upon birth of she who doggedly
pursued me to the ends of the earth
and what not take no as an answer.

Unbeknownst to yours truly
a baby girl got born
sixty three years from aforementioned date;
she automatically triggered
excited buzzfeeding murmurs
heard amidst the madding crowd
patiently awaiting to secure their eats
at none other than Horn & Hardart
offering their house special,
albeit free of charge;

the grandfather of present day
food service industry company Grubhub
acknowledged storied birth
with roster of special guests such as:
Connie Francis, Eddie Cochran
(the latter came all the way over
from the United Kingdom),
and even then president
Dwight David Eisenhower
made guest appearance.

Meanwhile, about sixty plus miles away
a little boy, (who lived
in Levittown, Pennsylvania)
experienced a fleeting warm gentle caress
identical to soft summer breeze
linkedin to sugar and spice
and everything nice;
he smiled and unknowingly blushed
unaware his destined lifemate
secured courtesy good housekeeping

seal of approval,
which may seem
like an otter outrageous claim,
but mark my words approximately
thirty orbitz around the sun later
would witness his heartthrob
(currently snoozing away on the bed)
pledging to accept first one contra dance
after another until... death due him part.

I ofttimes sat alone
on the concrete steps
at Summit Presbyterian Church
6757 Greene Street, Philadelphia, PA 19119
perusing contents of reading material
unable to focus on the words,
cuz excitement prevailed
to exalt in an evening of pure ecstasy.

The third Thursday each month
at eight o'clock post meridiem
held special significance
at above named facility,
which constituted kibitizing,
fraternizing, but especially flirting
while contra dancing
usually with no ulterior motive.

Our fate got sealed upon occasion,
when I willingly shared Neptune Salad
(a discontinued product sold at Wawa)
with lass who stood
all of four feet and eleven inches
and sported trademark long thick hair,
whose locks (I dreadfully report
long since got lopped off),
then rivalled those of Rapunzel.

As an introverted generic
long haired pencil necked geeky lad
always awkward in the company of people
(even making small talk),
an eventual comfort to converse arose
with longitudinally challenged referenced gal,
whose buzzfeeding dialogue
indeed jump/kick started
us to exchange tidbits about ourselves,
such as address, age, birthday...
and other general information,
hence bringing to my awareness
regarding special occasion
she made debut appearance
within webbed, wide world.

Said lass subsequently
became dance partner for life
after she found herself with child
we became husband and wife.
Renée Feb 2022
today's for sitting still
the small girl in the window sill
watching as my silent rivalled whispers die
in february's lilac skies
today i am working, rubbing remnants
off of dishes and walking back inside
from the bus stop in 30 degree weather,
half the temperature from where you now reside
today i plan on kissing my teddy bear goodnight
kissing for love where your lips aren't
today i am getting in someone's car and then we’ll drive
to dover beach and maybe he will smile with those eyes
the two that beam like someone i've been
missing my whole life
tonight is for the prospect that could make me someone's wife
but today is for our nothings
in a february sky

— The End —