women were curvy and applauded for it in the forties and fifties
In the sixties, they wore pillbox hats, and Jackie O tweed suits
Twiggy was introduced as the one we were to emulate soon after
she had measurements like my own twenty, twenty, twenty
she must have subsisted on a teaspoon of cereal a day
maybe two peanuts and a sprinkle of juice
I am sure she was not allowed a whole apple
this is when teens began trying to starve themselves
I know because I was one of them
thinking I was enormously fat at one hundred and eight pounds.
I am getting myself a retail therapy cat said my aunt.
I met one once, and I am telling you that you simply can’t!
She had made up her mind and brought home Mrs. T.
A well-dressed cat that was persnickety, stuck-up and snooty.
She won’t speak to me and she puts on airs, said my Aunt Lee.
I told you not to bring one home I said, laughing a bit with know-it-all-glee.
Mrs. T was outfitted in round dark shades with white rims.
Her leopard cape was elegant without any kind of extra flair or trims.
She was carrying a black patent leather purse when out popped a mouse.
The creature was wearing a mink pillbox hat that outclassed our house.
A mouse too! Said my aunt. What on earth was I thinking?
The mouse ran up into a wall and died there, so now things are stinking.
Anti-Poem – “Respirations In Blue”
the mother cooks food on the old gas range
wearing a blue dress she boils five potatoes
husband fred wears a red sweater smoking
pall mall non-filters that spew and respirate
he stands with beaded ashtray and blue tie
listening to LA radio the tune-dex the top 50
he wonders if she needs help with the mashing
a white radio atop the fridge respirates softly
sweeping them into the pillow rooms of blue time
the mother alive again though buried in a grave
cooks food for fred again watching jack latham
wondering if kennedy will speak soon on the tv
secretly wishing for ten minutes alone with him
her white pillbox hat sitting sullen on a dresser
husband fred draws in another hit and exhales
Jackie wore a pillbox hat
And all who watched remember that.
That image, with her rose-pink suit
Is something no one can dispute.
The bloodied suit, of wool boucle,
Is, in the archives, locked away,
But no one knows the whereabouts
Of Jackie’s hat, though some have doubts.
Her secretary and her maid
Were stubborn and could not be swayed
To say where maybe it was tossed
And so it was considered lost.
Most likely, it’s tucked out of sight
And in our lives won’t come to light,
Though some collector looks and sighs,
Enjoying that pink pillbox prize.
Students wear a mortarboard for graduation
Not a deerstalker like Sherlock Holmes
If they did, I would have to tip my hat
To those with such discriminating domes!
If you are a fireman, chef, or police
You always must wear the appropriate hat
Are you bad or good with a hat black or white,
Or are just cowboy hats distinct like that?
Not many wear a trapper like Elmer Fudd
Or a nifty coonskin cap like Daniel Boone
Some wear a Beanie or knitted when cold
I just hope they don't wear them too soon!
For safety, a hard hat or helmet will do
A beret or pillbox sure won't help with that
As for me I most recently shaved my head
But decided to keep it under my hat!
How uncomfortable I was, sun beating down,
wished I was back home in Esher,
I didn't have to kill anyone in Surrey,
now life and death, always in a hurry.
It was what I was paid for, King and country,
with all this gear on, so damn heavy;
some sort of pillbox ahead, giving trouble,
remembered my commander: 'At the double.'
Then one of us was down, poor devil,
do I just leave him there in the sand?
No, I can't do that, I'm up towards him,
my chances are poor, life expectancy grim.
Drag back, nearly there, then the sting,
in the shoulder, damn, it really hurt,
pushed comrade into cover, over a ridge,
then there coming, other side of the bridge.
My mother was told about the son she adored,
unfortunately, I wouldn't be around to collect the award.
Hot sand… hills of hot sand; I feel cold,
The cold powder through my toes,
And the air is quietly travelling its path,
A meandering river, it flows.
Then, before me, the oasis, the answer to my pain,
The answer is a sugary glow.
And my hill becomes a dusty road of a single note,
That leads to where I go.
I walk in the memory of then,
I walk along a forgotten path of eyes that stare.
I walk inside the pillbox of a broken turret,
A broken turret mistaken for care.
But then she rescues my all, she throws a rope,
And drags me to memories when life was tame,
She saves me, she says she remembers,
She remembers my lonely cup dancing, my flame.
she wears bows in her hair
what is she 13?
she wears pillbox hats
and pearls
I mean come on
who still wears pearls?
she has bracelets of every shape
and color
around her left arm
her arms a fashion statement
men's jeans that drape
around her waist
and a cinched woven Aztec belt
what is she homeless?
she can't be
she has an advanced degree
and buys her coffee at Starbuck's
she wears white shoes after labor day
what does she care?
she has a son named rainbow
with a small "r"
who drives a Karmann Ghia
I have to know this woman
I just have got to know her
spiritually
A pillbox hat, a suit of pink,
The blood and all the tears;
That small salute, so solemn –
Is it really fifty years?
A swearing-in, a widow’s face
Behind a netted veil;
The coffin in a hearse and then
The bugle’s lonely wail.
The anniversary today
Demands that we take note
Of innocence and what was lost
In times that seem remote.
In Knotty Ash where magic lived
The trolley runs all day
The pillbox on the corner stands
Five flagstone from the bus stop
Outside the News and sweetshop door
The start of Eaton Road
The next left down East Prescot Road
Woodbourne winds around the back
An’ up above the nex las shop
Was where we ‘ad ar flat
The front door opened to the street
then straight up stair at that
With a landin’ an’ two bedrooms
With winders to the street
But if y’stepped two steps straight on
Past the bathroom door
You’d be in the famly
Dinin’ Livin’ Parlor Room
We called ar ‘appy ‘ome
With not much left but kitchinette
An’ veranda to stair down
The back garden had a shelter
Left over from the war
And three brick walls for climbin’ on
With a big door for the tea shop
And a single that was ar’s
Lookin’ back it was n’ much
But back then it was ‘eaven