I made my way into the clearing,
headed for the congregation.
I dashed out
and she followed me
with all four legs.
We, excited and startled
the lady with a backpack.
Her eyes and countenance
glowed at our surprise.
She looked our way,
into the neighbor’s backyard.
She’s briskly
headed to her own get together,
on two scrawny legs -
how does she do it? Her two feet
covered in canvas and rubber.
We don’t need such accoutrements.
We are but simple deer,
driven forth by the dawning sun.
She’s forgotten as we sup
on a nearby patch of strawberries.
("The Cave of Unknowing", original oil on canvas, 2012)
Taste Again
In the cave of unknowing
all my accumulations are gathered
accoutrements and sign posts
along the way I have chosen.
The path though never leaves the cave.
What awaits outside is pathless
immediate and direct.
In the cave of unknowing I sit
and see all my troubles
have always been the ripple I send out
from being me.
No matter how they go out and come back
eventually they settle
and I taste again
what it means to be free.
(8/9/23)
When he was born, for a while,
he was placed in a plastic box;
thereafter as an adult
he moved into many a rented and boxy room.
As he matured, he filled his available space
with the accoutrements
of a hastily gathered together life.
He mostly wanted and pined to be -
a cowboy,
a buckeroo on a far roaming horse
for hunting the far flung.
As he gazed from his boxed in mind
upon the blue yonder
he would sing lonesome songs
knowing only the God
of faraway places would hear him
and not tell.
He knew that if were ever to escape
his own boxed-in existence
he could never
go back then to his four cornered homes,
in the cramped and crowded towns,
for that would surely
hurt his wide-open heart.
Ironically, and not so incidentally,
he had long made a living making
boxes in such places.
Perhaps this alone can be said of him:
That his limited life grew larger
as he filled every box with his hopes,
visions and dreams.
BOUNDARIES
an
unworld
explicitly
rendered
incorporting
misshapen
pictures
in a
gradual gloom
stubbornly
numb
& constricted
a
statuesque.
impression.
affluent
in
appearance
of
practiced
postures
of
still life
accoutrements
with
plentiful
attributes
universal
&
poignant
throughout
a
glimpse.
a
proof
transplanted
pirouetting
breathes
trabquillity
the
ultimate
contraint
a
sensory
manfestestation
of
creativity
&generosity
in
a
rightful vision
encapsultes
to
resassemble
depicting
the
sanctified
in
continuing
expectations
Do you sometimes see a Zulu Warrior
Staring back from the mirror in the morning
A nasty fierce looking bad tempered dude
Obscenities flying out without warning
Crabbing bout having to make a living
But enjoying all the many accoutrements
If it wasn't for that, it'd be something else
People just love to complain and vent
A shower and shave, you're almost human
Not one person will ever suspect
That a member of the Zulu Warriors tribe
Was a coworker of great respect
Do you sometimes see a Zulu Warrior
Staring back from the mirror each morning!
Staying in the bed today
Not getting up at all
Except to get accoutrements
Or answer nature's call
It's not that I'm running
From life
No cover pulled
Over my head
The rain drumming
On the roof
I just woke up
decided and said
I'm staying put
In my comfy nest
Read books,watch movies
just get some rest
Not escaping
but embracing life
As a steaming mug
I hoist
Giving in to
The hearts desire
Giving wants
A voice
Yep staying in
this cozy cocoon
all the
Live long day
Maybe calling up
An old friend
See what they have
to say
No places to go
Or people to see
It's staying in
The bed for me
Say a kind word to your husband
That's what he wants most of all
Not a gaggle of gifts for his birthday
You don't have to buy out the mall
Compliment him on his appearance
Or say that you appreciate his perseverance
Tell him it makes you happy he's so tidy and neat
That in the house he puts slippers on his feet
Let him know that he's magic for your son
That he's turned him into a real gentleman
Point out just how much his daughter loves him
That she tells you only God is above him
So forget all the knick-knacks and accoutrements
Hubby thrives on kind words and encouragement
From George Washington’s Rules of Civility and Decent Behavior:
#54 Play not the Peacock, looking everywhere about you,
to see if you be well decked…
JONESES JETSET
Maude, she did pile her accoutrements high
upon her head - peacock-in-style. So sly,
she looked up and down
with thumbs up or frown.
This fashion afficionada spies.
2/5/2020
Your Best NEW Limerick Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Tania Kitchin
The eyes fit into little holes;
The nose, ears, mouth do, too.
Of course, you have some choices
But not more than just a few.
The parts are made of plastic
Though way back in my own youth,
The body was a real potato -
That's the doggone truth.
The toy came with accoutrements -
Each pointed, like a stud,
Which you stuck with wild abandon
Into any uncooked spud.
I told this to my grandkids' mom
Who, when her own mom spoke
Of using a potato, she
Assumed it was a joke.
But creativity was once
So simple, we've forgotten.
The only drawback was
Our masterpiece, at times, went rotten.
The trees are sporting finery
I've not seen in a year,
In just the nick of time before
The month of May is here.
They aren't fully decked out yet;
Accoutrements await,
But slowly they're preparing
As if going on a date.
Their branches draped in color now,
They preen and bide their time
'Til filled with fruit and flowers
They'll be fully in their prime.
An Ode to the Necessity of Seduction
She had been primping, preparing,
for these moments of beguilement.
Groomed, long before she began to
blossom, reach her time of coming out.
Always possessing the accoutrements
of beauty yet unable to truly fulfill them,
growing into the subtleties, the nuances,
of her awakening without understanding.
So it was she changed from tantalizer,
to temptress, to seductress. Drew to
her that which she desired, took what
she craved to satisfy her needs, to
further the continuation of her beauty,
to intermingle her unique scent
into the legends of seductions lore.
Drawn to her as if in trance-like dance
they came. Each seeking her approval,
her acceptance, the opening of her
ever ripening petals, her willingness
to continue her seduction.
She would, in time, reach fullness,
and succumb, willingly embracing
the gentle touch, the erotic intrusion,
the fulfillment of her season. She
would be no less beautiful only more
complete, knowing that the lovers drawn
to her iridescent center had been seduced
so that seduction’s beauty might endure.
submitted for The Heart of Seduction – poetry Contest
10/2/2014
I do not need to eat
In a romantic atmosphere.
I’d much prefer a pub-type place
For burgers and a beer.
Those fancy boxed-up chocolates
And a dozen long-stemmed roses
Would get a thumbs-down vote
If that’s what anyone proposes.
On V-Day, I prefer a card
And possibly a flick,
With dinner in the kind of place
That I would always pick.
As long as on this date I have
My husband by my side,
Then all of my requirements
Have somehow been supplied.
So all those red accoutrements
And other mushy stuff
Won’t make me any happier –
For love’s reward enough.
Our snowmen, they're not made of white.
They're tumbleweeds, rolled up tight.
No top hat upon his head,
a cowboy hat sits there instead.
His face and buttons, tree ornaments,
boots and lariat, his accoutrements.
Saguaro cacti with lights wrapped 'round,
illuminate the landscaped grounds.
Old horse drawn wagons get a festive touch,
with lighted garland, packages and such.
Porch rails glow with colored lights,
Christmas trees in windows, warm the nights.
Our little town gets all decked out,
then we gather along the parade route.
Folks on horseback with ribbons and bells,
the horses know that old route well.
Marching school band play Christmas songs,
trucks and tractors carry carolers along.
Floats abound from businesses and groups,
braving the cold, the Christmas cowboys troop.
We all stand up to clap and cheer,
as Santa, as usual, brings up the rear.
Waving his red cowboy hat, in a horse drawn sleigh,
Welcoming Christmas, The Wickenburg way.
Mom gave me it.
A last moment thing,
as if I gave a flit
about silly customs.
Yet, for my daughter
it's preserved... ****!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nancy Jones
POEM OF COMPRESSION
9/23/13
Treading lightly through snaking,
muddy trench
Squeaking boots with slippery
grooves synch
A mass of matted flesh bares its
rotten stench
Thirsting maggots, doting flies
cannot quench
No rustic accoutrements adorn, not
even a bench
Deep longing for warm touches of
caring mother, practiced wench
But only cold, rancid rain does
shriveled limbs drench
In crowded hovel, selfishly hoarding
space, miserly grinch
On the perimeter, attentively
guarding every blood-soaked inch
At the sound of concussive fire,
conditioned body doesn't flinch
Chiseled teeth in tandem solemnly
do clinch
Only my spent gut, as churning
butter does wrench
With dutiful vigor, watching every
strand of demarcated pinch
At the slightest, forward motion,
my hawk eyes squinch
Related Poems