petite rhinestone buttons from the forties
buttoning up the back of a size zero blouse
it appears to be chiffon, sheer, classy, chic
Old Hollywood glamour, but who can wear it?
No one in this family; I want those buttons
But dare I deface this gorgeous garment?
Within the hurricane report,
Of which I just heard snatches,
A person on the radio said,
“Button down the hatches!”
So many people get things wrong
When idioms are used
And it is understandable
For folks to be confused.
But “buttoning the hatches”
Wouldn’t help one to protect
Either property or relatives,
At least last time I checked.
If I close my eyes I can almost smell the flowers
buttoning into summer with a vibrant petal stir
Walking through the lane I own a sweet review
of all the roses that once hugged my fence
A little squirrel skitters through a leafy tree
skirting in the distance like a flying superman
The sound of children 's laughter in the sun
is a magnet to my ear, I am lawning once again
The tea is served in mugs of goofy decalettes
beneath a parasol umbrella green and white
The hours melt away like a season's peep show
but I need not memorize this momentary glow
for I know each year that winter doors will close,
and the spring will reappear like the iris & the rose .
Feb. 28, 2019
The sunlight broke the silence of the glass
To serenade the silhouette within.
That time of day when swallowed doubts slip in
Like uninvited guests,
She gazes out the window
After buttoning her dress,
Reminded of the failures of her past.
Copyright © 1997-2018 by Benjamin Toney. All rights reserved.
Image credit: Woman at the Window by Jozef Israëls | Hamburger Kunsthalle Museum
Young visitors
to his grave
at Pere Lachaise
wonder why
an old chick like me
gets up on his tomb-
stone which is littered
with wine bottles
stuck with flowers
and written upon
with loving graffiti
to take a photograph.
They stare,
hide smiles,
not knowing that
while my babies slept
I played The Doors,
dreamed of un
buttoning my blouse
and walking with Jim
down the dark streets
of Jacksonville.
I’ve been asked why I would keep it,
Why I don’t throw it away,
This big box of fancy buttons.
They are of no use today.
In these days of fast and furious,
Zippers are the way to go.
When all is so tightly scheduled,
Buttoning buttons is too slow.
This pink one’s from the little dress
My dear mama sewed for me
When nothing could be store-bought
And my mama’s time was free.
These buttons are my memories
Of the years not long ago,
When pretty buttons were the fashion,
And all time was set on slow.
Written: 1/20/13
Every brick in the cell has a date and a time,
Ingrained in a blood red script;
Countdown markers of a history of mine,
Symbols of pain in a crypt.
I came and I saw, or the other way round,
Conquered then paled like a ghost;
What becomes in the end is a hole in the ground,
Crematorium dreams of burned toast.
At some point in a phase words engender no good,
Buttoning lips in a daze;
With a heart on a stick pumping misunderstood,
Love is a loathsome malaise.
If I hunch in a crowd and melt in the throng,
Will no one perceive I am there?
From nothing to nowhere I pinwheel along
Even I cannot tell if I care.
Feelings devolve in a spiralling drag,
Numbness pervades all the while,
The cats are estranged and let out of the bag
And smiling a bittersweet smile.
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