I met her at a biker bar
(C) 2025 by Russ Dodson
I met her at a biker bar
somewhere in midtown Monterrey.
She said she was a topless dancer,
working fifteen shifts a day.
She handed me a well-worn token,
said her name was Daisy Mae,
said if I learned to play the game right
I would never have to pay.
I placed the token on the table,
waited for the song to play.
When it started, she stood up;
I watched her body start to sway.
She headed for a dressing room,
looked back and said, "Don't go away."
She returned wearing a costume
meant to lead a man astray.
In pasties and a beaded g-string,
everything was on display.
Her eyes said, "This is all for you, love."
There was nothing more to say.
I sit on a straight back
red vinyl chair
in a Chinese Take Away
waiting for my beef
and black bean sauce,
pork chow mein and a serving
of special fried rice - hear
from behind a beaded rainbow
coloured curtain the sizzle
and spit of hot oil, the constant
sound of a ladle scraping
the sides of a wok, smell
a symphony of smells
that run a river of saliva
across my wanton tongue -
then silence, seconds
seem like minutes until,
“your order is ready sir”,
and at that moment
all the loveliness
of the world becomes
boxed and cradled
in a Lion Dance labelled
take away carry bag.
Note for American readers.
In Australia we use the term
Take Away instead of Take Out.
Same thing. Not sure of the term
used in the UK or elsewhere.
The white ones glisten
in a beaded sweat of sleep,
exposed in beds
of ruffled, scented petals
as if this falling into sleep
had been a struggling
against the night’s inducement,
requiring great effort.
Now morning has arrived
with its cool, gentle light
to awaken these roses
to yet another day or two.
But they sleep too soundly,
perhaps still indulging
in amorous dreams of
the night before. Who’s to know?
I take my leave, whispering:
Ladies, when on awakening,
should you get word I called,
I beg you, please, pardon
my pure, though less than
modest, peering eyes.
Edited 7/2/2025
Luna beckon's a siren's song
To reach the crescent moon,
she awakens before the water serpents arise,
and sea merchants sailing in from shores nearby
At crack of dawn and drawn to flickering lights,
night's natator of the bluest sea
zigzag's through the starfish
Caught in a seaweed beaded necklace,
tangled in nets sailors left adrift,
she reaches the open prismatic sky
A rainbow parrot fish tail flips over
smoothed sea glass rock
A siren goddess appears
Multicolored moments, eyes dilate
as indigo hues glow—it blankets
in silhouettes upon flowing strands of hair
Embracing the early morn with a sigh,
mystified mermaid from deep underwater
her thumping heart beats calm, in sync
with the crashing wave as it trickles down
A phenomenal crescent moon luminescent
As a cool salty wash laps the rocky shore,
it recedes with sizzling sounds leaving
pocket holes in the wet sand
Dawn calls with haunting cries,
she sings a siren's song
Museums
A place full of stories
Of art
Not just in the paintings
But in the people too
A little black girl walking hand in hand with her mother
Her eyes lit up in wonder
Wandering what she would discover
While she walks around
Spinning around
And jumping up and down
She doesn't see
That everytime she jumps the light reflecting on her beautiful brown skin makes it glimmer
Like little flecks of gold placed exactly
Like when the sun reflects a river
She doesn't see
The way her beaded braids move
Eagerly trying to catch up with her
Dancing in excitement
Enjoying this moment
Wishing she could forever stay this innocent
She shines like a diamond
She doesn't see
Her warm chocolate eyes
The way the brown melts peoples hearts
Her eyes alone could be artwork
An artwork that could instill innocence in every person It meets
Her eyes A superpower
That could bring people together
Just before she leaves
She looks at a final art piece
And for the first time she sees -
"Mommy it's me"
It was called the art of the reflection in the mirror
And when she looked in it she felt prettier
Her shocks poured forth like a midnight oil spill,
body buckling like a sapling in a tornado, cracked like a Grecian museum urn. Moonflower extended limb petals, hips arched, limbs touched the nightfall floor. Her firehouse quaked primal.
Waistline oscillated, packed rigid. Gasps defibrillated, beasts fought through tight ribs,
Midriff dilated, injected, probe swelled with force.
Her breath hung heavy, smoke in a chimney,
Drumbeats drumming on her global map, sweat beaded like molten glass.
Weary rasps of elation caterwauling,
guttural sounds spilled from her chest.
The morning sky is clear without the autumn's raining gloom.
Soon I will once again be laying with him in his room,
As well as gift him something I wish I had beaded with a loom.
Dream peep of early gold rim halo
August riser gleeful in exalted chant
Yield to dulcet chirp from ornate winger
Sunburst orange red splash of heaven
Taunt and tease ocean blue mist eyes
Amber warm rays dazzle pearl clad beach
Revere the hue-rich magic spectra veil
Designed by glow world spirit apt
Aligning deft nirvana enigmatic
You’ll embrace a stunning touchstone
Strewn amid solid crystal bounty
Traipsing vivid emerald paths ahead
Amazed by wondrous vista woven
Redolent of chalk mark visual rife
Dabble in the morn’s first usher
Archway to vibrant wakener within
Yen for ample stimulus astride
Sensory luxuriance devoid of match
Tangled web surfeit found epic
Aching surge of tinted aspect
Rhythmic ripples on beaded brow
We saw some hieroglyphics
And some beaded Native art,
Some instruments of music
With their coolness off the chart;
The Frank Lloyd Wright exhibit
And some armor from the past,
All admired and enjoyed although
We zipped through kind of fast.
The only place we lingered was
Where varied rooms were staged
Showing how the wealthy lived,
Our grandson totally engaged.
The lighting dim, the papered walls,
The opulent décor
Elicited reactions
We had not quite seen before.
Such lavish furnishings, unlike
The homes that I have known
Make me wonder how he’ll decorate
A home when it’s his own.
A clear-beaded mousie
with a pointy black nose,
twitchable beaded tail,
and ruffly yellow clothes.
The tail can tilt her head--
she nods without a squeak!
Quiet little church mouse,
I bought from a boutique.
(True story!)
A message:
Hello there Souper, thanks for dropping in.
Refreshment you are after? Good, then let the month begin..
I may create a habit of this monthly anecdote
Where I tell you of my passions
In a poem that 'I wrote'
A favourite. Or a sentiment that rises to the top
Perhaps it's not your flavour
That's okay, you can stop.
But take a peek at someone
That I've tagged and take the time
To enjoy their crafted poetry
(more enjoyable than mine)
Let the joyful breeze of wordsmiths
Cool your beaded brow, so hot.
Be a blessing in the world today
Love and peace.
Yours,
Sam Scott x
Rummaging in my attic-
found in a withered white box;
one each for the three of them-
my son's and two daughter's births.
Small treasures, hidden for years
discovered as a surprise-
imprints of their tiny feet
and beaded name bracelets too.
I'm blessed that I found them now-
for many, long years have passed
since I held my sweet newborns-
now with their own families.
Each in their sixtieth year
with stored treasures of their own;
to find again one fine day-
recall their memories too.
Such quick surprises grant us
great joy in reminiscing-
remembering joyous times;
one of life's most precious gifts!
On my leg
the smallest of red ant
racing all alone.
Beyond my curtain
beaded curtain of rain
drip dripping.
Squirrel and wrens
at once feeding on seeds
fallen from feeder.
On my porch
return of colorful frog
seated in basket.
*
Before the day turned into night,
when the sunbeams whirl out of sight,
I'll seize garnet streaks of twilight,
let lamps within heart reignite.
Above hills of hope where stars sail~
quills powdered with gold shall prevail,
and I'll weave this unwritten tale,
dress scars of sky with beaded veil.
I'm a dreamer, longing to hear,
twinkling tunes from an eclipsed sphere,
where tides of love wouldn't be a fear,
while ivory shores unfold near.
I'm the artist of my own night,
drawing diamonds from lunar sight.
The day after I was birthed,
God and a bunch of sassy angels
played Irish fiddles in a beery bordello,
a place not yet colorized into reality.
The next day,
squealing in my two-day-old
tight Rubenesque pinkness,
I was immortalized in a Brownie Box Camera,
the guys in the men's room
pissed themselves with a teary laughter.
On the third day of my fleshy ascension
a thin women said she was going to love me
for a little while only.
I took the deal.
So many days have fallen away now.
Sex saturated, love begotten, a damaged
dance of a life,
but there was always wine.
An old, white-beaded gent,
has bequeathed me two holy relics,
iconic images of Santa,
and Michealangelo's painted finger,
when I hold them up to the light
I can almost see through them.
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