Long Apron Poems
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Why me father/daughter relationship
important to this papa
Fourteen and a half years
since death of mother (mine),
nary one iota of communication
in general and compassion
in particular while
she lived, now wears
heavy and yokes
mantle fostering tears
indirectly sabotaging rapport
with eldest daughter
futility doth arise uttering
feeble secular prayers,
cuz interaction with mother,
whose vehemence more
deafening than banshee killdeers
exceeding threshold of
decibels tolerable these ears.
Now comeuppance came
full family circle, yes
that's her within picture frame,
when young, innocent, and beautiful,
decades before terminal
illness rendered her
incapacitated and lame.
Her second of
three born offspring,
and yours truly
that singular boy
figuratively tethered himself
to her apron strings,
which near omnipotent
biochemical bond her
rancor would destroy,
when lonesome son
failed to employ
purported adult responsibilities
solitary without any
even one homeboy
never knowing how
to maximize potential
rather totally tubular at loss
advantageously to deploy
supposed ducks in a row
always imp pond
durable feeling cast ahoy
shore lee within alien nation,
whereby village people
observe an exceptionally
unresponsive immovable
lad - qua zee decoy
analogous to stonewall,
albeit socially withdrawn
emotionally, physically,
and socially retracting
exhibiting no joy,
nor any audible,
tactile or visible life
stockstill like an
abandoned broken toy.
Silence spoke volumes mainly
I don't wanna be alive
antithetical to that basic
instinct to survive
protestations arose deliberately
minus figurative parachute,
I took kamikaze nosedive
a couple years after two times five
orbitz astride planet Earth
ne'er did amity, comity,
fraternity ever jive,
nope not even pleasant hello
would fake deaf/mute contrive
interaction between kith and kin
affection toward parents
and siblings (two sisters,
not twisted) I did deprive,
whence fast forward decades later,
a metaphorical wedge would drive
roughshod o'er kinship,
when fatherhood did arrive
though "star student" did connive
him (me) to test discomfort zones,
yet more often than not inclusive
integration abandoned among
linkedin with kindling explosive
smoldering volcano found
wicked volatility expressive.
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
Fractured prisms reflected the light as blood her apron, The mirror was first to see the deed and all the mayhem. Sunlight screamed thru the only window, making the room seem smaller still, Even with the summer heat I felt a sudden chill. The kitchen floor ran red, my father’s back did too. Mother stood in triumph like a cold starring statue. I never heard a sound ‘till someone yelled ‘My God’. Time seemed to be on holiday. All motion slow, unreal, odd. Sirens and red lights soon filled the parking lot. The excitement charged the air but we children seemed forgot. I never saw the ambulance as it sped away. I didn’t even. Get to say goodbye to this sad and dying day. Mother never swayed, she continued to stand her ground. She never made a sound. I don’t think she heard a word. I pulled my brother to me, he wiggled and pulled free. He went to stand by mother, that’s where he most wanted to be. I looked around the room, where could the baby be? Through the blood she crawled unaware of the violence shaping our history. That was the day my childhood died. I had o grow up fast. I learned right then about cruel life. As my world erupted into a volcanic blast. The fallout lasted for so long. That memory was seared into my brain. Never would I trust my mom again. Every day I lived in fear. When would her anger turn to rage? I saw that look in her eyes sometimes, like an animal in a cage
DOWN A STORM DRAIN GONE FOREVER.
There was once a wicked, jealous old human,
Who lived in a house down the lane,
Not far from us,
Ugly and mean sounding, couldn’t tell
If man or woman,
Was narky to the neighborhoods children,
Including me,
We discovered this human was woman with
One large bosom!
She lived on her own, no children or husband,
Or even a pet,
She always wore the same apron, her hands always
Hidden in this grubby apron,
My friends decided on a bet,
That she had a gun and would should shoot,
Us all dead
Why else would she always keep her hands
In her apron we said!
We could never have guessed the truth
About this apron.
One day we saw two young girls laughing at her
She was furious, fiddled in her apron
And immediately,
Upon doing this, the girls fell, and each
Broke a leg!
We couldn’t believe what we had seen, I noticed a
Hairpin on the path, going back, very sharp,
And then another and another,
Each one, a different color.
Obviously someone was throwing the
Used pins away,
In a very careless way!
I have to find out what is in her apron pocket,
I said to my friends, so early the next day,
We all met
Behind her house, I was chosen to be
The pickpocket,
So I crept along the bushes outside her house
Waiting for her to have her afternoon snooze,
I saw a locket around her neck which was open
And from it peeped bright colored
Hairpins, she was asleep,
With one eye open, I thought I could see
Her eye socket!
Terrified I stretched out my hand, put it gently
Into her apron pocket,
And pulled out a tattered faceless little doll,
Home made from potato sackcloth,
A voodoo doll, screamed James,
He was certainly not wrong for he played
A great deal of TV horror games!
She obviously pricked the voodoo doll
With colored pins,
Every time someone annoyed her, she would one
Day pay for her sins!
As quickly as we could we ran to the nearest drain
Down the street and dropped it in, it fell silently
And disappeared, gone forever,
That woman was not sane!
The next day early we walked towards her house,
The house was empty and the horrid old witch gone,
We breathed a sigh of relief as we watched
A new morning dawn!
Contest: Down a storm drain, gone forever,
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Date entered: 2019/03/02
Mama stood at the kitchen sink, quietly drying the dishes and putting them away. I
knew
she was crying because every now and then she would wipe her eyes with the hem
of her
apron. She hadn’t been eating much, lately. She looked so tired and drained. She
was a
tall, beautiful woman. At 40 years old she looked as if she had just turned 30. She
was on a
leave of absence and had been keeping busy around the house, constantly
cleaning,
scrubbing and washing. In hindsight, now I know she was only trying to keep busy
so she
wouldn’t think about her first born son. Mama had slept so much the week before. I
remember wondering, back then, asking myself, was she also sick? I was too afraid
to ask
out loud. I would lie next to her in her bed and watch her sleep. Her stirring
reinsured me
that she was fine-only sleeping. You see, my oldest sister, Winnie, after Brian died,
had
explained to me what dying was. So then I knew that dying was like sleeping, only
you
never wake up. I was not going to let my Mama die also. I would bring into her bed,
my
coloring books and pencils and would sit on that bed until she woke up. Sometimes,
I would
fall asleep, then awake to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, saying her rosary
and I
would join her. In some ways I was like Mama. We were both of quiet spirits but
she was
strong and also an extrovert. She made friends easily. I on the other hand, was
shy,
stubborn and introverted. Later on as I got older, our personality would clash on
many
occasions.
It was a Saturday afternoon in May. We were all sitting at the kitchen table. We,
kids were
eating all the sweets because Mama and Papa were distracted. There was still
plenty of food
left over from the week before. Mama’s many friends had really showered her with
love.
They had cooked and cleaned and comforted her as much as they could. Mama and
Papa
very seldom ate any food, which seemed to last forever. My older siblings were lost
in their
own thoughts and grief, my younger sister, Lena, my cousin Reggie and I ate
heartily of
anything we liked. Being the youngest of the group, we did not fully understand
what was
going on. We were talking amongst ourselves about our
A game of musical chairs has just begun in earnest. A pot and kettle band arrives
through the dining rooms’ French doors following the Valentine Queen. A putrid pink
flamingo with a croquet ball stuck in its beak settles it’s derrière onto a fine caramel
leather seat. His humor is short lived. A snort echoes from each of the six bullhorns
forming his head. “Got him that time, you really did, Matilda!” laughed Lucky, the
horn-backed chair. A single, rose-pink, button pops off Matilda’s back and lands in
the hatless brigands’ teapot, just as he is placing a silver tea ball inside. “Ou a le
petite fille?” Matilda groans. Around the far end of the table chasing a set of
disembodied eyes with a cat tail, a girl child runs screeching. “She looks familiar,
don’t she?” Windy whistles beneath the lacy tablecloth, tickling Mattie’s fancy. “Her
name ain’t Louise,” as with a plop, a brigand crushes Laddie’s rushes. The windsor
replies. “Geeeeeeeeez Louise!” the ladder-back mutters, between its back straps. A
top hat flies through the air and landed on the top knob of the lanky ladder backed
chair. The child righted herself, wiping her nose on the errant apron string. She lisps
through the spider web pattern of her seat. “Awww now what a shame,” Mary
whispers to Tex. The loose tails of her apron caught beneath Mary’s rocker and the
child tumbled face forward into a full cup of Assam tea. A girl child resplendent in
golden locks and white pinafore tore into the room planting herself on the caned
ladies rocker Mary. “Mon Dieu” She moans. “Ya’ll see that nasty monster splatter
chocolate icing on my skirt?” A knob kneed, potbellied prig, holding a cupcake,
shoves his way onto Matilda, the little ladies slipper chair. Tex the horned back chair
at the tables girdle chortles. “Do you know who’s been invited to this soiree?” The
rabbit topples over backward, his watch bashing his delicate pink nose. Windy
sneezes.“Aahhh chhhooo!” Tufts of fanny fur tickled between his spokes.
“Good golly Miss Molly,” shrieks Windy the windsor chair at the far end of the table,
as a wild-eyed, white rabbit with a gold watch plunked into his well-worn seat.
*Refer to "The Chairs Have it"
This poem can be read from the backwards too ;)
I am a purple headed chicken with glass beads. I like to roam the wooded glades. I often wear a pair of shades. It shields my precious amethyst eyes from the glare of the sun. Such heat corrodes such orifices. But producing a grin as I pass the goblin who gazes ay my feathers in an admiring stare. Then I make my way up the tree and use the vines to swing over to my favourite picnic spot by the lake. Mrs squirrel has made an amazing spread of acorn nectar which I peck up at great speed. Lovely wild mushrooms mixed with bracken. A treat as I sit in my woodland dream. But oh no what is that? That terrible noise? And why is it so very dark? I feel squashed. My throat is dry. Where are my woods? Oh no I am here and not in my sanctuary. I must claw at the sides of this thing. Far to restrictive. Cant even flap. And isnt that Myra, and Hettie I can hear clucking. If I get out then I will get them out too. Wait for those passing stomping boots and that noise must be on as I go. Means the end of a life but if I can rescue some of my friends it will be fantastic and plucky too. Plucking up the courage she began to claw and finally broke through. Squashing through the tiny bars she found her friends and instructed them how to release. Then one by one they flew up and up and up into the night air. Using the rest of their power gained by finding three pieces of corn on the floor of that place. The ceiling had a sky light which was barely wide enough to squeeze a potato but they managed to kick it whilst beating their wings. Finally having released themselves they soared across to the woods in the distance. Where they were greeted by a squirrel in a patterned apron and chefs hat. Wow Mrs squirrel is real. Not just in my dream. Mrs squirrel smiled and greeted her and her friends. Now you will have safety here amongst the trees. Later you can visit the lake. Then the blanket was dutifully laid and the birds sat down to enjoy their feast. Feasting feathers find fun. Then they spent the future swinging from the vines, visiting the lake for regular picnics, singing with the woodland choir, and working the soil with their claws and beaks. To earn a crumb is to earn a crust. And crusts are neither crumbles nor couplets crouching. Cluck cluck cluck. Ornithomania
Form:
PANAGIOTA CHRISTOPOULOU-ZALONI
Poetess, novelist, essayist, painter,
Editor of literary magazine KELAINO
e-mail: tzina@otenet.gr
Address: Zaloggou 16, 13231 Petroupoli-Athens-Greece
Haiku in English
of Mrs Panagiota Christopoulou-Zaloni
=======================
Poem and love
With scented thoughts
Holy Communion
*
Lyres are starting
Divinely are chanting
I feel so happy.
*
Pain and sorrow
Filled is the heart
Sigh of blood.
*
My white roses
Same with my sorrow
They are so faded.
*
The snow of your Soul
A shroud to your dignity
Was a destiny?
*
White violets
For Christ’s Resurrection
I bind with poetry.
*
In my happiness
The clouds falling piously
Became vowels
*
Nostalgia’s music
On the leaves of time
It is twisting.
*
Crumbs from your kisses
Mixed up with memories
I am gathering.
*
For the resurrection
Of the “substance”
Crash yours “ego”.
*
Fragrance of memories
In the leaves of your mind
Icons hand painted.
*
The train of your life
The road carved by love
Has passed away
*
Was demolished
The castle of my dreams
Without any reason
*
Stars of diamonds
In your apron tonight
Feel sentimental
*
The white pigeon
On the great horizon
Writes “Freedom”
*
The cruel masters,
Which are hard dominators,
We deny them all.
*
Pale from sorrow
Looks upon to my memories
The moon of my mind
*
They are planted
In children’s smiles now
Cartridges of machine – gun
*
Night of January
Behind the barbwire
I saw light of hope
*
Lights on the waters
The kisses are gleaming
The shore shines.
*
The wind and the mind
Sure for eternity
They are running
*
Fear at wide plains
Love’s nets were ruined
The birds homeless
*
Mine sacred cup
I feel with light from the moon
And burn incense
*
Ungratefulness
You wore me the sorrows
Stuck on my body
*
I think of writing
Thoughts and words
With another ink
*
Will search and find
A perfectly smiling ink
And a pen of joy
*
Every morning
At everlasting time
YOU, ME and LOVE
*
I fix the poem
Cream rose coloured
I offer it to you.
(Inspired by all the Adams, but with special mention to Frank,
Dr. Ram, and Christopher)
For being a lazy head, see what you reap. . .
I came from your ribcage while you were asleep!
I’m second but best, and I’m looking fly,
so get with the program. Wise up, silly guy!
Don’t get all riled now that I’m not your type.
Have you seen a mirror? Talk about hype!
Go look in the stream then and see what I mean.
I’m needing a king because I am the queen!
You can’t lay down laws, for Eve is my name.
And as the First Lady, rule-breaking’s my game!
And neither to me does size matter a bit.
I’m after a man who has style and great wit!
Around here you won’t find a 7-11.
What did you think? That we’d gone to heaven?
Inside this here garden, with plenty to eat,
I’ll cook, but you catch it. . . And bring me a treat!
If being away from my voice is your wish,
then go to that stream there and catch me a fish.
I’ve already trained all the parrots to talk
to entertain me while you’re out on a walk!
Go be by yourself whenever you please.
I’m woman, and I’ve put the creatures at ease.
The mammals already have found me so grand,
I’ve got them all eating right out of my hand.
Because of my wisdom and my patient ways
I think we’ll be living here millions of days.
So don’t bother me and I won’t bother you.
And maybe we’ll even find “fun stuff” to do!
A doctor named Ram in a garden nearby
is looking for someone who digs a smart guy.
He says that he needs the “intellect’s touch”
I might just go there if you hassle me much!
And off somewhere else I heard of another
named Adam too. Could he be your brother?
I might like to check him out, though his Eve
has told me he fancies himself with a Steve!
And don’t think I’ll leave for your telling me to.
There’s only so much you can get me to do.
That snake tried to give me an apple. The fool.
I rarely eat fruit, but a roast sure sounds cool!
So gird up your loins and catch us a lion.
Then I’ll don my leaf apron and begin fryin’.
And just you remember, in sex’s sweet war,
The one with nice “melons” is surest to score!
For Deborah Guzzi's Eve in Eden Contest
& for P.D.Slam contest (thanks Deb and P.D!)
Yours truly snapped, popped,
and cracked his crown out cervix
(I'll spare ye the bloody graphics),
whence obstetrician able, eager, and
ready underscored with italics
to pass (think football) garden variety
wrinkled newborn asthma
noggin heralded lix
plus deux orbits ago
sported an ordinary
uneventful, nonetheless miraculous
biological secrete reproductive tricks
immediately screaming
without assistance courtesy
Gran Prix (now pronounce as pricks)
also envision Dolby surround sound
nsync with spastic kicks
'o mine straggly mostly
gangly lovely bones mox nix.
Within some nondescript
Cincinnati, Ohio hospital heed gypped
(i.e. none other than me)
thy young mother of prolonged labor
as his bony ass easily
slipped out uterine crypt
whereby with Vernix
caseosa, the waxy or cheese
he appeared made rather dipped
in tallow, thence unexpectedly whipped
minuscule fist ready to bump.
Once placenta and fetal membranes
(unnecessary as wing ding)
discharged out uterus
after birth of offspring,
and thar weren't no more
major contractions in the offing
ma mommy lovingly did cling
to her bundle of joy and bring
maternal breast I ravenously
did suckle fortunately toothless
against her tender bosom trickling
(if mammary serves me correctly)
I presently recall no iota of inkling
what events transpired, nope
no recollection about me circumcising.
Moost likely I felt Jew bull lent
glad yours truly chose decent
mother and father, which opinion
subjected to radical change,
when as grown adult child
living nonsocial under
their roof forced to hire agent
provocateur to practice sparring,
when standoff event on horizon,
which eventually begat ultimatums
their red hot poker rage spent
belittling, cursing, damning...
quiet as Unitarian Church mouse content
internalizing later smoldering
anger I needed to vent
in retrospect diminutive little boy
tied to mama's apron strings
afflicted with mental
health issues inherent
of course hindsight gleaned
social, psychological, neurological...
healthy development got rent
asunder partly explaining
why I became indigent.