Marvelling in the pink afternoon, pretending
to crochet a drawstring. I’ve done it before,
at least once before, followed the pattern. Closed
the purse. I can’t nearly begin
to learn that not all things are meant
to bring pleasure to me…they are oft’ meant
to gift, to love, to let go
of. Don’t
pull too hard…enclose a piece of your heart
on a little toy ship…let the paper sailboat
head toward the pond-swan. Even
mom’s precious teacups sunk
to the glass bottom, broke
in pieces. Her words stay,
meaningful & meaningless.
She meant us siblings to cheek-kiss.
Dad’s eyes see through the glass bottom -
either smiling bright or sad if we fight,
so we mustn’t fight. Marvelling
in the pink afternoon, pretending
to pour tea. Laying linen
on familial laps. Kind cubes
of sugar, kerplunk, splash
about with leafy-hugs. the drawstring closes
over promising memories. Marvelling
in the pink afternoon, letting go of…
Into the store dressed completely in pink
He looked like he wanted to kick up a stink
The legs of his pants had decided to shrink
And was that man angry, well what do you think
He read my name badge and he growled, ‘Mr Purvis…
The sign on the ceiling says ‘Customer Service’
I’ve worn this suit one time and washed it as many
It’s shrunk and it’s pink so have you got any
I need a new suit and I need it today
And do not tell me you expect me to pay
But make sure you get me one that will not fade
Or it will be me who ain’t gonna get paid
I said I will take your address if I may
And also your name; we’ll deliver today
I joked that pink suits him, he wanted no banter
He gave me his details… “Lapland” and “Santa”
26 November 2022
Contest: Write A Christmas Poem
Sponsor: Constance La France
Her name was not Virginia
Neither was it Pat
I remember her as June
Because of her lovely pink hat.
June is a pink hat month, you see
With its flowers so charming, so gay
Yes, I know her name was June
I remember her quite that way.
She spoke so softly, gently I'd say
I thought she'd scarcely be heard
But her pink hat served as a megaphone
And the group heard every word.
Hundred of speakers have said their piece
Some short, some stocky, some...fat,
But none have held my attention
Like the lady in the lovely pink hat.
I'm surrounded by the down and out.
Look too tired to shout.
Seems like they only want to pout.
Me,
strong feeling I'm missing a link,
without a doubt,
would put me in the pink.
While observing their plight,
I could be taking flight.
It's a signal from inside,
indicating my heart is open,
but missing something.
Now a slight ache,
not a sharp pain,
telling me to make a change,
or there will be no gain.
Somehow find the one,
impossible to fool.
Not about the outside,
beauty marks, or perfect things,
that start one to drool,
But feeling in the pink,
being with the missing link,
just occupying,
the very next stool.
Don't know if I'll get there,
but when I do,
it can turn into something,
lasting and true.
My granddaughter is in the pink
From her double chins to those drawers that stink
She looks just like a kewpie doll
She’s chubby, pink, and oh so small
Her cheeks are a rosy-pinkish hue
Her toes and fingers, they’re pink too
When she gets sleepy she’ll protest
Then fall asleep there on my chest
Her eyes will close – her lips will part
A pinkish glow grows in my heart
And once I feel that pinkish glow
It tells me that I love her so
Until I met her I don’t think
I knew what’s meant by in the pink
Morning is a cistern;
its beauty laid out bare
to my naked eye.
Round, golden-amber flame,
gradual is your eager burning
one with significant strength and worth.
Your potent, pinkish explosion
is placed in view, in which,
my eyes are glazed over
what falls before me.
Your blushing tone angles
as it also reflects itself above
the sound of water so perfected,
brimming of detail;
coming in to fully focus
in a moment of friendly favor.
A received silence securely seizing me
with its mighty magnetism and stunning stimulus.
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