Emilia J, so lovely and light, no sun-bearing song, could be singing so bright,
In the heat of the day, or the chill of the night, Emilia J, is a beautiful sight,
At the core of the Earth, or the crag-bearing crust, Emilia J, is a beacon of trust,
If you batter your bread, in a bag-tearing bust, Emilia J, is a poetry must.
Emilia J, how great can you be, writing your poems from the top of a tree,
The crows are upset, invariably, but Emilia J, is a blossom to me,
Her writing is finer than rabbits have hares, Emilia J, is a friend to the bears,
If poetry, possibly, prickles your pears, Emilia J, is a poet who cares.
I knew Billie and Bobbi and boy, were they fun,
At the end of the day when my work was all done,
And Miss Sally Sue Treet was a challenge to beat,
For the bakery that closed at the end of the street.
There was Pamela Jo with her joyful embrace,
And Miss Candy La Beau with her lip-sticky face,
There was Millie and Minnie and little Miss Mutt,
And the burgers we ate at the Chicken-Kiss Hut.
Now all of these moments, both loud and obscure,
Are the days of my life at the speed of a blur,
But in spite of them all and the fun they portray,
I would rather write poems with Emilia J.
For what is the world but a window to life,
And a garden of fruit to a husband and wife,
If you capture these truths in a far-reaching way,
Then you may win a bust of Emilia J.
Now Emilia J. is the master of poems,
And her works should be read in the finest of homes,
If you want to be read in a scholarly way,
You should write for the praise of Emilia J.
Now her works can be read in a comfortable bed,
With a husband named Bill or a woman named Fred,
If you want to be touched in a wonderful way,
Then you must read the poems of Emilia J.
“Not sure of being familiar
With Washed-Ashore Emilia,
Neither saw The Cadillac
Not The Woman in Lilac,
Whom they’d decided to waste,
Stripping her down to the waist”.
Oh! How my two ears did burn
And my quiescent belly churn
And I stopped seeing Keats Urn
When the cops said “It’s my turn
To down sit for questioning”
And me was positioning,
Their routine activity
That made my captivity …
I would say quite Dramatic:
Experiences Traumatic;
All the time Protective
Before Smart-Eyed Detective
“Lots of pity, Emilia
But to her not familiar” …
Later, I learnt ‘Candidate’
With her rear’s ‘Up-to-date’
To neatly win The Loyalty
Of even The Royalty.
Short, but full of lies
Your hate lies in those emerald eyes
That hateful glance
Wannabe stance
If you're a hater
Why do you wanna be her
Stole her friends
Wanted her relationship to end
She thought she was so perfect
So she tried to end it
End her
Destroy her
Be her
Emilia In Romagna
Somewhere a lost little girl
Is crying in her bedroom closet
Because she can’t hear
Her mama
Moving about anymore
She can see dim shapes
Mama stored stuff in here
Luggage scarfs tennis racquets
Croquet mallets
Boxes of old photographs
Useless
Rubbish
Apparently not water or food
She can hear the ancient
Transistor radio
Mama always kept on
Pavarotti is proclaiming
His love for another faulty insecure woman
In an opera that makes
As much sense as this
Her disconsolate glissandos
Ravaged juddered weeping
Rival the maestro
For now
Until later
She was pregnant
She named her daughter Emilia
She was quarantined
Daughterfreed
* Based on true stories of abortions of female fetuses in India.