The Engagement Party

Poetry Month, day 14


The Engagement Party

Some of the guests were grey-haired,

one was a girl of 13, 

one was a babe in arms.

Some were family,

some were colleagues.

Some were Adam's mates from schooldays,

others were newer friends.

We all dressed up in our party best.

Josh's little sister,

there with her handsome husband

and cherished toddler daughter, 

was slender and beautiful like Josh himself

(who clearly adored his tiny niece).

There was Adam's bestie, Emma, of course,

his step-mum (me)

and his boss.

I ran around taking photos.

The crowd overflowed the restaurant

to gather outside in the balmy back yard.

It was Adam and Josh's favourite restaurant;

you could see that the owner and waiters

knew them not only as regulars but friends.

I was taken good care of, an honoured guest.

The nibbles were spicy, the sangria rich.

The entertainment arrived 

in a flurry of glamour. 

Big hair, lavish frocks,

full-strength make-up: 

black-rimmed, sultry eyes;

huge, red, luscious lips.

The bodies were fat and fabulous,

body language outrageously seductive.

"Hello, Yes voters," they declaimed.

(We'd just had our plebiscite 

in favour of gay marriage.)

"Because, if you're not Yes voters,

what the hell are you doing here?"

Applause, yells of agreement, laughter.

Adam and Josh didn't time it that way on purpose,

but it was a delightful piece of synchronicity.

"How old are you, dear?" they asked the teen.

"Are you here with family, or did you just 

wander in off the street?"

Polite lass, she gave straight answers

in her sweet young voice.

"You might want to get her out of here now," 
they alerted her aunt 

before starting in on their bawdiest jokes.

When the night got darker

we all crammed inside.

In a corner, a man played flamenco guitar.

We made circles and danced.

I left around midnight. The guys

sent me back to their place with friends

who couldn't stay on either. 

A kind young woman took my arm to the door.

In the morning, when I emerged 

from the spare room, bodies

were crashed out on both couches. One,

when he woke, turned out to be a chap

I'd known for years; Adam even longer.

He staggered to his feet to give me a hug.

After breakfast, Adam drove me

to catch my plane for home.

When I looked at my photos later,

a lot of them were blurry. (I guess 

I was blurry myself, after more than a bit

of imbibing.) But they showed

the spirit of the occasion: joyous.

We didn't put them on facebook.

It's still a secret from Josh's parents 

back home, hoping for something normal.

(So if anyone comments on this on facebook or other social media, please don't name names.) And here is one of the entertainers:

The prompt Eres Tu at "imaginary garden with real toads" asks us to find inspiration in a song of that name, sung on a video about a gay wedding.

Friday 13

Poetry month, day 13

Friday 13

She is a bolting horse 

escaped from the stable.

Her bones are lightning, 

her flesh is quicksilver.

She is a swift arrow loosed 

to disappear without warning.

She is the natural curve 

of the earth, ever receding.

She is the anger you rediscover

in your voice, the shaking breath –

your own moods taking exception

to all and any comfort offered.

She is storm, she is forest fire, 

she is flood and cyclone. She must

pass through. She will perplex; 

pray she does not destroy.

13 Is Poetry, says Magaly at "imaginary garden with real toads", inviting us to choose 3-13 words from a given passage and use them in a poem full of metaphor. I had fun describing ... who? ...what? I didn't quite know, flirted with the idea of naming her Nemesis, but decided that, as this is Friday 13th, it's more like a promise that the old bad luck will get ya. Nevertheless the image is of Nemesis, I think from a game. It was made available for free download so I assume Public Domain.

My words:  disappear flesh bones natural perplex voice exception anger rediscover pass comfort moods breath

Rosellas

Poetry Month, day 12

Rosellas

She is harvesting from her garden

rosella fruits – red, like the birds, 

though without their patches of blue –

for syrup, sauce and jam. “Good

for the immune system,” she says,

“and healthy bones. Nature

gives us everything we need.”

Rosella (the bird) is my totem,

I was told by a knowing woman

long ago. Up on Pinnacle Road 

years past, they crammed the trees,

flashes of moving crimson. Lately 

I'm seeing them everywhere again, 

but now they appear in pictures.

A message for my inner knowing

from the bounteous Universe?

“Pay attention! Here's something

good for you!” And my friend is cooking

rosella fruits, that guard against

winter coughs. We arrange

a bit of barter for some of her sauce.

At "imaginary garden with real toads" we were invited to be inspired by Costa Rica Photos. A photo of some fiery macaws reminded me of our Australian rosellas. This photo of a rosella is free via Creative Commons CCo. The top photo is © Tan Summerell 2018, from her facebook post, which also inspired this poem.

Seen and Unseen

Seen and Unseen

Our facebook data is being sold off

to advertisers and worse, who use it

to discern our personal triggers

and pull them. Pow! Gotcha!

We know you’ll buy this

bag, book, training course….

Maybe. The real crims, though,

aren’t doing so well with me:

widow, clearly not young.

They offer me thickset men

in military uniforms, white-skinned, 

hair just slightly greying, wholesome.

The sort you’d have taken home,

once, to meet your mother. Ha! I know 

they are not truly the names or faces 

they show. And anyway, I never fell 

for the ones my parents approved –

doctors, lawyers, accountants, dentists….

I look like such a sweet old lady,

posting photos of roses, messages

of peace and joy; liking cats, and a green

environment. They don’t see how I’m drawn 

to the shadow, the danger, the flame:

the unusual. The man in black.

Lean frame, long locks, dark skin. 

Antlered Cernunnos in the wild wood.

Black-haired Merlin, of the Old Folk.

The scintillating fae, who dance all night

in a glade among trees, lit by the moon.

Oh facebook, you know nothing.


Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Vision, which quotes Jonathan Swift as saying, “Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.”

Soundcloud recording added 21 June 2019.

Facing Up to Being Brought to Book

Poetry month, day 11 (2)

Facing Up to Being Brought to Book

Brick-a-brack in old digital store-rooms

seemed innocent when we stashed it, but now

it matters who sees it. Who is it dooms

to permanence our old records, and how

were we to guess they would? Now, what a row

erupts across the ether! Cyber-space

has ceased being our cosy home, our safe place.

It’s full of attics, cellars, safes and vaults

to which all have unauthorised access, 

and our foibles morph into major faults.

I decided to write two poems for day 11, because I realised belatedly that choosing an old poem for the Tuesday platform yesterday defeated the purpose of creating a new poem every day this month, so I needed another one. Yes, it's another dizain. And I'm still trying to make a connection to Maya Angelou's "long-ago rooms" as virtual store-rooms for old data.

Those "Long-Ago Rooms Where Memories Lie"

Poetry month, day 11

Those "Long-Ago Rooms Where Memories Lie"

are so many by now, and so varied.

Some, it is true, were unpleasant places,

but others ... how I'd love to have tarried

in those rooms, those dear times, with those faces –

and yes, I'll say it, in those embraces.

The memories that lie there, I don't think

they lie as in falsehood. Oh, let me drink

deep of that cup of remembrance, and bring

the live emotions back, poised on the brink ...

of joy or pain? Would they sing? Would they sting?

Today, for Micropoetry at "imaginary garden with real toads", we were invite to be inspired by Maya Angelou's "long-ago rooms" to a poem of 12 or fewer lines. I decided to try a dizain, just because I like them and haven't done one for a little while.