(The UK Queen's Platinum Jubilee was in June 2022)
You're at Trooping the Colour now, Dominic.
Were we not friends when we were schoolboys?
You look so smart now, Dominic, guardsman,
wrapped in the shining redness of that costume
under your tall, beautiful bearskin cap.
Recall that friendship, Dominic,
those distant days at school?
I saw your show on stage -
those school plays, musicals, but mainly ballet.
Such standards, almost worthy of a jubilee.
And here you are on our TV.
A performance, Dominic, seen by our Queen,
and millions, oh millions, of viewers.
You're at that Platinum Jubilee,
a concert full of marching men,
a march that is a parade,
a parade that is a ballet -
performing people, of course.
Would you wish to know me, Dominic,
now you're in your very posh world?
(June 2022)
(You may wish to see also "Obsequies for a Queen" of September 2022 and "Coronation for a King" of May 2003)
Categories:
bearskin, color, dance, memorial day,
Form: Free verse
Twas not your wine that is intoxicating
It is the light of your candle burning
With glass eyes I can see through you
Sipping every taste of your gentleness and grace
Tarry not reaching out to me with your hidden fire
Let your wick keep burning with dripping desires
Let us lay before our fireplace caressing each other
Watching each flicker creating two sparking souls
As our smoke arises signaling our desire
Upon a bearskin rug let us always cuddle together
Our music will play on with harmony and tone
While we softly and gently fall in love
Categories:
bearskin, metaphor,
Form: Free verse
displayed on knotty boards of pine
he stares into the fireplace
where glowing embers snap and spit
for him
his teeth ajar in frozen growl
which once chewed into salmon's flesh
and crunched through rabbit's snow-white fur
to bone
a wet black snout sniffed forest scents
now plastered fast with mod-podge glue
brown glassy eyes shine bright but fail
to see
he used to roam the timberlands
and munch on berries in a bush
and sleep away the winter snows
in dens
one spring he bounded happily
where lupins bloomed and robins sang
the hunter aimed his gun for one
clean shot
Categories:
bearskin, death, innocence, nature, spring,
Form: Free verse
At any rate, she knew she wasn’t alone
With both the baritone and guy with the trombone
‘Twas hard to tell wearing the blindfold
Which was holding onto the bricks of gold
She decided to have fun and play along
Drew the line at joining their silly drinking song
She found herself lounging on a bearskin
And in a crinoline feeling quite feminine
So far the sideline was odd yet somewhat divine
When she recalled needing to catch a flight by nine
No time for shopping in spite of having gold to blow
At any rate, she had a plane to catch and had to go
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on August 17, 2018 for PREMIERE CONTEST NO.170 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 4TH
and on January 18, 2018 for contest AT ANY RATE, IT WILL BE FAST MOVING sponsored by JULIA WARD
Categories:
bearskin, adventure, fantasy, games, silly,
Form: Rhyme
I tripped over a bearskin rug,
I was trying to steal a hug,
when I fell to the ground
I heard a scary sound...
"Bear's not dead" she said with a shrug.
Categories:
bearskin, humorous,
Form: Limerick
Limerick croisés : Once a loud-mouthed Sergeant-Major
Once a loud-mouthed Sergeant-Major
Joined Cold Stream Guards to troop colour
He kept wondering why
He heard not himself cry
Until he took bearskin helmet off ear!
So he left the Lilywhites Guards
To lounge around the ‘Frisco bards
Beats made him bleat poems
Sans use of micro-phones:
What he heard made him rejoin Guards!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Categories:
bearskin, humor, poetry,
Form: Limerick
There is nothing like waking from a sleep
Slowly remembering parts of a dream
They are all yours and yours to keep
Woken up by a morning sunbeam
If your lucky a sleep will befall you
Dreaming that dream into oblivion
Walk on the wild side, stay cool
Why not make love on that bearskin
Continuation dreams are the best
You can to kill the beast and get the girl
There's really nothing to confess
You know it's all a different world
Wake to remember her subtle scent
Recollecting a fading interlude
Wondering where the morning went
Then realizing you slept till noon
Categories:
bearskin, funnymorning,
Form: Rhyme
Sun-faded cardboard photographs
of 1970’s hairstyles
were tacked to
the brown paneled walls.
His counter was cluttered with
the shiny tools of his trade,
a chipped glass bowl
laden with lollypops,
and a jar of combs
in blue liquid.
National Geographic,
Sports Illustrated,
and Life
were spread out
like Chinese fans
on the coffee table.
On the shelf,
above the coat hooks with
forgotten umbrellas
and orphaned scarves,
and smelling faintly of cigarettes
and of mystery,
lay a stack of glossy Playboys.
I was tall enough,
but not brave enough,
and that brass ring
was never grabbed.
I sat in Gino’s cold
metal and pleather chair
and thought about
warm flesh and silky hair.
I pictured a model
on a bearskin rug
in front of a crackling fire,
clutching a champagne flute,
or a long-stemmed rose,
or another pointless prop.
Images cavorted as
Gino’s quick hands
floated around
my teenaged head
and his silver
and snipping scissors
danced the Barber’s Waltz.
Comb, snip, snip
comb, snip, snip.
Puckered red lips
blew kisses and
high heels clicked
through my head
between clouds of talcum
and splashes of hair tonic.
Categories:
bearskin, anxiety, childhood, hair, life,
Form: Free verse