One score minus two, on my own,
a strange invitation to dine,
green behind the ears, all unknown,
Mrs. Johnson, how can I decline?
Why this interest she has shown?
In her world, wasn't I misplaced?
Rough and crude, just barely grown,
amidst her femininity and taste.
Among her furnishings and photographs,
my pulse raced. I thought, "this is it".
I've not heard this new way she laughs.
It feels sinful and illicit.
I felt her fragrant, silky touch,
while before me falling down
(as painted fingernails clutch)
her flowing hair and gown.
I can't forget the dim lit room,
dressing table, bottle of perfume.
The crystal perfume bottle still remains,
the one he gifted her so long ago,
upon the dressing table veiling pains
of life’s uncaring, unrelenting blow.
The soft gardenia scent still takes him there
to moments shared when loving seemed complete;
unending nights beneath the stars they’d share,
and every sunrise was a joy to greet.
But then one winter day the angels came
to lead another soul to heaven’s keep;
extinguishing the woman’s earthly flame,
and here, behind, her husband’s left to weep.
So now this crystal perfume bottle’s scent,
a fragrant echo of the life they spent.
The woman sits silently
on the edge of the bed
A thin shaft of afternoon sun
from a tear in faded curtains
slices the murky room,
landing on the man's damp body
half-covered with draggled sheets
She had completed her dressing.
Now slipping into her shoes,
She lights a cigarette;
exhales deeply,
the smoke rising lazily to the ceiling.
There is no conversation.
She eyes the money
wedged under the half-full glasses
plonked on the dusty dressing table
"See you next week," she says,
mechanically,
as she heads for the door,
collecting the notes.
It was not a question.
A BRIAN STRAND Vers Libre Poetry Contest placed 1st
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Date wrote: 6th March 2022
It was not I that unveiled her beauty.
The model waiting to enter a camera lens
fusses over a shoulder strap and steps out.
Did I see a veil fall?
The crying girl beneath was erased in an instant
as she felt eyes upon her, it vanished
where she pouted and posed.
Maybe I was mistaken, maybe I’m and old romantic,
seeking something not there,
but I do see her alone with her dressing table mirror,
listening to the glass image, telling it not to cry so.
Exasperated she rises and walks to a window.
There is a man in the distance, he is away
from the crowded street.
He is waving to her.
I imagine I am Peter Pan bringing home the lost girls.
Though she sees only a small boy
and wonders why the child is all alone in the park
crying.
Then she remembers her own secret image
and understands.
Detritus
Sitting there, honey,
Cleansed and bathed,
Scented with lilac and rose,
Glistening at your dressing table, and
Eyeing yourself in the chrome mirror;
I, as your guest, sit by and watch,
Astonished at your well-intentioned revealings,
Seeing your young beauty at morning tide,
As hands and fingers apply the detritus,
To nineteen year-old eyes, awash in teen wisdom.
I sense there is something you want to say,
As you lean toward your reflection there,
Smearing scarlet on wet open lips,
Your unbuttoned camisole dangling loosely,
Upon your shimmering backside,
But finding a foothold upon your upturned breast.
And here I sit, astonished again,
At the perennial return of one endless ritual
After another.
Zounds!
Do you realize I cannot resist you?
Yet it makes me wonder,
If you want me to make love to you.
Yes, I wonder.
Well, shall we just dispense
With this slow dance in the darkness?
Look at me!
Zounds!
I will make you dance!
She's making love to him as though he'll
pay her with love he would have given
her in the lost years.
She's baking a fruit cake she saw
in a cookery book. It's the best she's
ever made. She knows he likes it.
She's taking out the garbage. Usually
they sleep all Saturday mornings,
and assume the garbage people
will somehow open the locked
kitchen door, and take out the garbage.
Her suitcase is about to burst;
Her flight ticket is at her dressing table;
Her nails are well made and glossed;
Her taxi is about to reach the gate....
She's about to tell him "Goodbye" for good.....
A wooden carving of a regal and grand horse stands,
outside to greet and usher customers into the dim.
The windows are a cluttered chaos of assorted things,
all beckoning and charming me to venture in.
The light is dappled and the corners lost in shadows,
aisles are narrow and navigation is so treacherous.
I like a box of odd books, some new and some old,
wondering why someone let these perfect gems go.
Most of the merchandise is too expensive for this girl,
but sometimes a treasure is awaiting my contemplation.
One mismatched plate, perhaps, or an old poetry book,
I love to ponder jewelry flamboyant, garish and gaudy.
The entire store is filled with odd, mismatched things,
I visit an ornate dressing table each time I visit there.
Imagining that it resides in my very own sparse room,
it is a journey into the unknown each time for sure.
_____________________
June 21, 2013
Poetry/Verse/The Door Is Open
Copyright Protected, ID 06-487-555-21
All Rights Reserved, 2013, Constance La France
If I should ever love you dear
Would it all be in vain?
If I would shed for you a tear
Would you still understand the pain?
Roses left unsmelt on your dressing table
You rather chose the babe in the stable
Became a nun and I was left with none.
I see you as if reflected
in your dressing table mirrors
or the waters of the old garden pond
You hear me through the echos
or whistling little answers
things you've not quite placed
from through the veil
That separates the times of life and death
You see me through the window
In the nature of the robin
Know when I'm around
through scents you breathe
I leave you little signs
like a solitary pure white feather
Placed where you can find it
So you know my love I'm with you
Just a simple little pleasure shows I live
But my dear I wait here for you
As I bless you with my presence
I walk through troubled times right by your side
And I fight the good fight with you in my stride
I see those tears of sadness
When your head is on your pillow
Now that you know I am still with you
Perhaps now you can smile and shine with pride
For you know within your conscience I'm your guide
Mother would tuck into each dresser drawer,
a bar of soap, to scent the clothes..
The familiar fragrance of English Lavender would fill the air
The small bedroom, a bit cramped..a bit shabby, but comfortably familiar.
The faded chintz curtains and the cover on the four poster, was a primrose yellow...
and the wallpaper striped in blue and white.
There would be marguerite daisies in a jug on the dressing table..
Next to a framed photo of five, smiling young cousins..
all scrubbed, with shining faces, dressed for church, one Easter morning.
Over on the north wall hung a painting of Willowby Pond...
so pleasant to look at, just before falling to sleep.
Here I stand once again, having things so familiar, so much the same
I take a deep breath, recalling the sense of home, the fragrance of lavender
Like slipping into an old pair of slippers,
after spending the day wearing high heeled shoes
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Tall terrace housebow-fronted windows
Opulescent green lined walls silk paper
18th century French marquetry pattern
Glowing dressing table walnut veneer
Smoked salmon kisses heart on sleeve
That color does become her kitchen
A glimpse of yellowing autumn trees
Stately home ancient lake full of fish
Pot of coffee polished mahogany table.
Beautifully raised gaze. .Private moment .
enormously enjoyed each others comp
Ushered out....gates slid quietly together
delicate cabriole legs. oyster satin fabric
Loin of pork , leg of lamb , frozen cake.
Set neatly on her dressing table
Are make-ups and lip sticks.
All sorts of nail polish,
And glittering jewelry
Now lie upon
Her once untidy desktop.
No more Dolls and Tea sets,
And no more "wearing Mommy's clothes".
No more tea parties and Barbie houses
That used to emphasize her childish games.
Thus i find her room
Filled with posters of pop stars and boys,
with various magazines and books,
Cosmetics and perfumes.
She is not the little girl she once was,
For now she has grown.