"seersucker" poems
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”
The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.
My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.
Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.
When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.
I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.
Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.
I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.
Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.
I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.
Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 8:58 AM UTC
The Little Black Dress
The concrete city summer-heat will beat
most men into a state of distraction,
confess their sins w/o waiting for Miranda,
to warn them of their foolhardiness,
to warn them that silence is golden.
Some men will torch, not touch,
themselves to gain relief from city street heat,
Their loosened ties look like used nooses,
that have done some good hanging.
but not you babe, not you.
Sleeveless,
your shape shifts
effortlessly within,
a cool container,
your black sheath,
and what's underneath,
a knife in the heart of
most mortal, immoral men.
Black is the color of choice,
of les femmes fatales,
in the summertime, when we drink,
on rooftops, in search of a breeze,
and the lassies order silly drinks
with silly names, looking refreshing and
fetching, in their little black dresses.
Manhattan, my beloved, misshapen,
fingerling of an island-city-fortress-playground,
named such by the Algonquins,
the original poets-in-residence.
In a city of stone and brick
gets so **** miserable hot,
Good Humor melts instantaneously,
and the toasted almonds taste fried,
the papers report of Poets suffocating,
unable to exhale their own fiery breath!
But not you babe, not you,
in your Little Black Dress,
you suggest all is well with world,
perhaps I should try one as well
We fight the temp rising with
white linen, white shoes,
straw and seersucker,
not you babe, not you.
Black silk that rustles,
Black silk that mocks the sun,
Stirring up rustling in faint-hearted men,
observing your languid promenade across 57th Street,
we the idiots, panting, tongues extended,
standing still like Frozfruit bars,
cry out in unison, I have been released!
Contradictory miracles still occur,
disbelieve me if you want,
from June to August,
this isle ruled, by tan goddesses
in a uniform of a Little Black Dress.
May 28, 2013
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
Door slam wakeup;
A half-sighing unmoist
Philadelphia sinus sniff
Announces a guy in a red,
White and blue seersucker
Suit who parks on our block
Every 6 a.m. to walk to work.
He likes a dumb bumper joke
— his magnet loop which says
Support Lap Dancing. New today
Is a gag half hockey puck glued
To his Ford 150 rear window
Amid a decal of spiderwork
Cracks radiating across the
Shadowy defroster strips
As if the puck's halfway
Through the glass —
But isn't.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
A translucent bluish-white mineral with a mysterious sheen
I hear them rustling behind heaven's plisse,
fabric seersucker curtains, opaque but unlaced
One breath and suddenly
I am a teleported into being
letting go of faculties and senses;
I am a prayer, hanging on everlasting hope;
These precious substances of color and charm
both calm and confident, ignite the soul
and usher you with peace, love, harmony.
Filled with Goddess energy
they exude warm tones of luminescent, ephemeral light ;
Hold out your hand then close your eyes
soon you will get lost in their clairaudient
Moonstone Melodies;
Yokiko reveries fill me like no other
listen to the sound they make
Angels dressed in crinoline gowns,
swooshing and spreading light
everywhere...
Lost in their chime like sound of tinkling glass
they are un-comparable,
A thousand stars of heaven could never compare
to these moonstone gems,
who seem to claim the heart bit by bit then,
all at once.
Copyright © Mystic Rose 2024
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 5:29 PM UTC