~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The squirrel, in a tuxedo of fur,
balances on the fire escape~
champagne flute clutched in tiny paws,
bubbles rising like stolen stars.
Below, the city shouts Happy New Year!
above, the moon sips its own silver.
He tilts his head, takes a dainty lap,
then drops the glass~
clink
a crystal acorn for the alley.
Who needs resolutions
when you’re already
a small furry god of mischief
with a champagne
buzz?
Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful. – Molly Ivins
G-7 Summit: A fly buzzes past
a plate of untouched canapés,
watches sharp suits nod at nothing,
landing briefly on a leaked memo~
climate action postponed, again.
It circles the champagne flute of a diplomat
who laughs too loud at a war joke,
then settles on the shoulder of an aide
texting: They still haven’t noticed the typo in the treaty.
The fly on the wall, sated on hypocrisy,
flies out, as unnoticed as the promises.
Th cloud looked like airy anvils drifting under the gleaming disc of the sun,
Suddenly it became churlish and kraken-cruel,
The ansty swollen tar-black and large cloud began to roar in a fearsome way,
The summer solstice had ushered in the rainy season.
Great gouts of water were coughed out,
And it thunked here and there,
People walking on the streets ran for cover,
Making different colours of umbrellas to cram the horizon.
A tinkling sound came to people's ears,
As the first pearls of rain dropped onto the the rooftops.
The sound was like the glassy clinking of a champagne flute, lilting and clear,
Again, a fierce and tumultuous thunder rattled the air, with frequent lightening ravaging untimed.
It teemed down in a biblical deluge, flooding the street's sewage and roads,
The sea, that gleamed still, like a myriad-petaled rose,
The sun, like a great dragon, couldn't writhe in gold.
I'm cold to numbness while the farmers are smiling.
The groom, resplendent, so proud in his suit
Not normally a man willing to boast
Stands up, breaths deep, with raised champagne flute
A tear in his eye, he sets out his toast:
“An ode to my dear, a beautiful wife,
Whom l love so dearly, deeply and whole
Her eyes, blue shining stars, brimming with life
Charming, kind hearted, but was mine you stole
I declare, my love, for a life we share
The joys it will bring, with you at my side
In good times, and bad times, and all they bear.
With fondness and love I shout with great pride
To the whole world, and for all here to see
How much I love you, the other half of me.”
31st January 2020
If all that's left
Is last night's lipstick on your
Champagne Flute
On this most unsuspecting new year
Then let us part as friends
And hope where our love ends
A love of ages begins
For some or other Soulmates
And let the fireworks illuminate the Sky
Like it's the 4th July
MIGHT THIS PLEASE SIR?
4 CUPS OF STRAWBERRIES
1 CUP OF THINLY SLICED RHUBARB
2 CUPS OF STRAWBERRY CHAMPAGNE
1 & 1/2 CUP OF WATERMELON CHAMPAGNE
3 CUPS OF SUGAR
1/4 CUP OF LEMON JUICE = 2 TABLESPOONS OF CORNSTARCH
5 TABLESPOONS OF CHOPPED MINT
MAKE A SYRUP WITH SUGAR ADD CHAMPAGNE (BOTH)
ALLOW TO SIMMER UNTIL THE MIXTURE THICKENS.
ADD LEMON JUICE AND MINT
WHEN MIXTURE IS THICKENED ADD STRAWBERRIES AND RHUBARB
ALLOW TO COOL.
IN A SWALLOW OVAL SHAPED DISH OR A CHAMPAGNE FLUTE
ADD A FEW SLICES OF POUND CAKE
TOP WITH STRAWBERRIES AND RHUBARB AND TOP WITH WHIPPED CREAM
SERVE WITH SOME CHAMPAGNE AND ENJOY!
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes brushed the intricate parquet
Carmel was swept off her feet to the clanging tunes of Flamencos
A pink flamingo swapping kisses and castanets high above the floor
Gypsy tattoos on her ankles swirled like Derwish’s ecstatic devotion
Cocaine eyes wide open on her man but tonight femme was fatal
Titanic brazier squeezed her bosom into fake contours ready for the kill
Thanks to her doctor her uplifting bottom implants softened the crush
Champagne flute shards mixed with botox as she lost her superior stand
Wiped seductive smiles off her face and mingled lip stick with blood
When she woke up from her dream it was not her gigolo lover who
Spoke softly through the daze of morphine and anaesthetic delirium
‘Ma'am I am sorry that I could not save the ink adorning your tootsie
And I will have to refer you to the guy from the plastic department
For you boobies’ reconstructive surgery to recover their natural shape
But your stilettos are out of this world ‘though they scraped a few bones
Do not worry unduly though because the footloose jewels cover my bill’
19th May 2019
Aahhh sumptuous beloved nineseventeen
calling for hot frothing, purling, bubbling steam
laving eager flesh with honey scented cream
strategic jets pummelling tight spots unseen
hand languidly reaches champagne flute between
naughty nibbles on silver dishes that gleam
reflecting radiance of goddess light beam
eyes devour tales of sensual jewelled queen
glistening satisfied muscles stretch and preen
breath slows, pleasure coaxes perky nerves to dream.
Written 9th July 2018
for contest 9.17
Also Brian Strand's Late August Contest
Moonshine in a Champagne Flute
I'm a midwestern boy from Cincinnati.
Raised to fear the lord and say "Mam".
Grew up modest but never in need of nuthin'.
Ended up in Alabama and met my next wife.
She's a firestorm and a summer breeze.
She knows everything; cures my ailments.
She set me straight when our girl despaired
and wanted to abandon college to come home.
I am confused at times, not sure if she's
too highfalutin for her own good.
She's my anchor, my yin to my yang.
She's a jelly jar full of champagne.
When
The
Clock hands
Mark midnight
At the New Year Eve
Raise high your champagne flute and cheers
For the best and not so good moments lived in this year
Making an agreement with yourself of realizing the best efforts of progress
Nayda Ivette
12-25-2015
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.
A wisp of oxygen coated in nicotine
A Pavlova tutu caught in the snare
Of a petticoat flooding like a
Mouthful of cigar smoke, rupturing
Clouds and folds beneath her
Like the angel of a Christmas tree
The cold glass eyes, filled like
A champagne flute, their cataracts
And dead black amnesiac stares
Watching and forgetting in an instant
Saline girl approaching like a panzer man
Caught in a bubble, completely
Separated, the heavy gate slammed
The cemetary forging into the photo frames
Those wide eyes told tales but
Now they sit on a shelf of wrinkles
Expressing pain for those young ones
Are gone now like the mothers chained
To parliament gates, fighting endlessly
Under the snow globes of petticoats
The netted window of sickness catching
Out shadows, the bubble, a fish
Bowl, her hand catching the rough salt
Watering the flesh. White apron, thick crimson cross.
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