The carolers have left the lawn,
the final party guest is gone,
the heavy parlor drapes are drawn,
the hearth's alight with wood you've sawn
I've changed to flannel from chiffon,
your tie is off, your slippers on,
there's wine left in the demijohn,
and toast points spread with fine cretons
We fall back on the silk divan
and maul the tray of snacks thereon,
you raise your glass to hide a yawn,
the last act in the denouement
The air now chill, the fire wan,
we should have long ago withdrawn
but sleep delays us there 'til dawn,
deep in the chaise we lay upon
'La maja desnuda'*
by Francisco Jose de Goya
his Venus upon a divan did laze
with a straightforward& unashamed gaze
For children’s maw a woman slept,
When not, wage and daily bun slept.
In hope that at late last he’d come,
Windows, leaving doors open, slept.
The night, shadowy more than shy,
On spreading her dark omen, slept.
‘I need none whoso in all world’,
My pride, in death all undone, slept.
Dog-tired, enduring my burden,
Me all awake, my divan slept.
________________________________
Ghazal |05.12. 2023| sleep
Based on a Gujarati Ghazal by Mitra Rathod.
I leave the auction sick, my mettle frayed
A ghost, I fear, in oil clutched near my side
No doubt, a ghost for which I've dearly paid!
How best to next proceed, I must decide
The painting I have bought portrays a man
laid out upon a bed as if he sleeps
A woman stands beside the low divan
Offhand, I'd guess a mistress that he keeps
I recognize the bloke who's laying prone
A classless dog and local alley cat
His past and family folk remain unknown
but those with whom he spoke called him "Merat"
I peer more closely at the racy scene;
Beside Merat, a pool of crimson red
The woman's face is cool, if not serene,
quite out of place, considering the bed!
I take my time in staring at the girl,
and make an observation I can't bear
my hands begin to shake, the air to swirl,
for that's my naked wife who's painted there!
As I trudge home, it's hell that fills my head
and passing by a doorsill with a bin,
I tell myself it's I who will be dead
if I don't shove the dreadful painting in
My mind is blank as I bypass the stairs
and free from fear of my assassin wife,
I steer my thoughts past murder and affairs,
then pull her near and thank her for my life
i like his poems
cherish his life
to wipe away his tears
read his poems
In his poems a few days ago
I got that feeling
And with a big heart, I bought his book of poetry,
A collection of his poems in a used bookstore
There is another volume of poetry that I bought for 1/5 the price
read while comparing
About 2/3 overlapped
So I went to the bookstore with a light heart
Contains representative works of 100 modern poets
Exchanged for a popular poetry book
the price is the same.
On her velvet, aquamarine divan,
With poetic thoughts, so sylvan.
At peace with midnight’s universe.
The starlit sky, understands her verse.
How near to God, in heart, is she.
Her feathered, poetic quill, sings of eternity!
1/6/2023
A serpent lies writhing on our divan,
we see now how denial might begin.
Hissing at all who would foil his vile plan,
our fatal flaw is not delving right in.
Climate Change is much more a twisty tact:
coiled thoughts like stone turrets in ivy.
If nations can't accept a real fact -
it's hard to turn this round, from what I see.
Setting science so very far aside,
deft doubters like letting sleeping snakes lie.
Skeptics scurry for a safe space to hide,
afraid to give the truth one honest try.
This then, becomes a crippling contrivance:
ever still stronger, steadfast defiance.
4/24/22 103 Words
Eerie parlor music squeaks out over the musty floral rug
No human people have been in here for a long time
The organ has lost some keys; which gives a weird sound
The ghosts in the attic cringe, remembering better days.
Once a showplace, the house is overrun by vermin now.
Skittering and scampering across the floor is commonplace.
Mice have nests in the rug, and in the long-forgotten divan.
Tiny streams of light come through the holes in the paper blinds.
Owners of this house have allowed it to die an unnatural death.
Urine smells keep the riffraff out; including a mother opossum.
It is the place where halfhearted spiders go to die.
Not haunted, yet, full of unhappy memories.
Why the organ plays herself, none of us know.
We wait in the shadows, willing a human to come forth.
Hoping they will somehow fix her up, making her fresh and new.
A man attempts to peek into the windows.
The organ ceases its dirge-like play.
We animals skitter into the darkest shadows.
A surprise for a realtor on this holiest of days.
Halloween, a day for crazed visitors.
Seems appropriate that he wears a mask.
I gaze on a scene of such total destruction
Somehow my husband has slept through it all
I’d thought that our home was of sturdy construction
I’ll tell you what happened as best I recall
At first the roof trembled, the seagulls took flight
The squirrels abandoned the loft for the night
The rattling windows were causing me fright
And no moth flew rings round that 60 watt light
The shutters all clattered and one window shattered
The drapes were sucked out so they‘d flutter and flap
My clothes spiralled round getting torn and tattered
Except for one dress which was caught by its strap
I fought with the duvet to keep it upon us
Our double divan started spinning around
A branch that crashed in almost landed right on us
But pulled out again to be hurled at the ground
And just when it seemed we would crash through the flooring
The whirlwind that had been as loud as a train
Just stopped with an encore, of my husband’s snoring
He’s not getting baked beans for supper again.
4 November 2020
Contest: After The Hurricane
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
This wonderful happy peace-loving man
Is here to tickle your shillelagh on the divan
No charge do I charge
As I steer my barge
While downing a whiskey with my pet orangutang
Seems just like yesterday when all this began
From a wee one on a tricycle to today on a divan
Recalling those days
Of a long-ago place
When the world seemed simpler on life's caravan
So the shape
Of the poem
Does not have
To be the subject
Of the poem.
Aha! Got it. After reading the rules twice, and then thrice, as I did not believe myself the first time or two. But what to write? Something that rhymes? An acrostic? A quatrain? I am in a quandary here, Sometimes the easiest thing to do becomes the hardest when you apply the dendrites and think too hard. I know this and yet, I am not the most prolific bard. What is the contest holder looking for? Some thing unique, simple, well-written and fine. I have to admit I am not as confident as at most other times. I do not want to write about a couch, but here it is Lying in my mind, big time as I try to create one. In a new and unusual way. As it is available and I am worn out just trying, I will lie on it now and take my well deserved cat nap. At rest now. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Written July 3, 2018
For Marueen McGreavy's Get Into Shape Poem Contest
What say you when a pig bathe in a muddy muck?
When he rolls merrily like 'tis panacea to his strain?
Don't you gawk at the amazing shuck
Could be to you 'tis a flaunt to his inert brain.
But how honey he embraces the muck-
When the sizzling lust for food slaps!
'Tis where he tanks up the lack
'Tis a divan for his daily naps
He rolls in it with sheer fun and joy,
Swaps spit with inner pathogens
To him's as sweet as the delicacy of soy
And dirt seems excite no antigens
But fools we the lookers
Who hate the act but love the actor
We're the daytime chaplains an' night's hookers
Musing the worthier and fudging the obvious factor
Don't we rear 'em and keep them?
And butcher 'em for pork?
And for sale don't we adulate 'em like gem?
Then why dub 'em berk?
With us is the knowledge and power-
To keep and care for these pigs
We can give 'em genial scour
And see 'em as moral prigs
NB: Exclusively for pig lovers.
Try to understand the natural meaning of this poem
Tim Conway was my favorite funny man
Back on the Carol Burnett Show, a great big fan
Busted me up
Filled my cup
Wet myself more than once sitting on the divan
Injustice is the legacy of man
It is the tainted ground on which he stands
Do not put your trust in earthling man
Why, he cannot wield his mundane lifespan
So what do we do with our earthy divan
This copious globe of purpose and plan
When all the media flaxen flames do fan,
And there is no trusting a robed clergyman
When half the country hates a family man
His replacement backed by the Ku Klux Klan
We cannot put our trust in earthling man
So put your faith in the Higher Helmsman
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