From his cocoon
overlooking the fray
the poet strikes
his keyboard
triumphantly
Truth ablaze
Walking on by eating my chocolate pie.
Dudes sitting on the steps trying to catch my eye.
I just keep strolling on by.
They holler, “Hey ,Ma Hi”.
I turn around smile and wave Bye,bye.
I have my crush, He has my Private Eye
Calls me his little pumpkin pie,Spanish fly ,southern tai
He is my tough guy,He is so Fly.
He sticks by and always stands by.
We pull tight like string tie.
Make others roll their eyes and sigh.
Even creep in sending messages they really try.
To break the beautiful butterfly.
Telling lies to make her eyes cry.
But, Love between the two is to strong to die
Or be dominated by.
We will hit you with the Evil Eye.
Light you up like its the Fourth of July.
Through his door she wafts, all eye candy and cigarette smoke. Feigning fear and need with a promise of earthly delights in trade. He, standing strongly alone, listens attentively but always sees more than is shown. Seemingly he melts in her warm, feminine hands, to be molded into someone more useful but easily discarded. Each play their games, vying for goals not perceived by the other. The hand may be more swift than the eye, but the heart… the heart is always quicker still. In the end, neither gains what they search for but both receive more than anticipated.
There can be no trust
‘Tween those who routinely lie
And those who seek truth.
5/3/2019
Pick A Title, Vol 4 - Haibun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
4th Place winner 5/24/19
Pulp fiction had nothing on him. He was a man’s man. A protagonist
of his own making, self-reliant, and self-assured. Marlow kept his wisecracks
to the bare minimum when meeting a new client. Dames were not as compliant as they used to be, and they carried their own derringers now.
More dangerous than ten years ago. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying a swallow of nicotine from his favorite cigarette. He had heard this woman was stacked. Mrs. What? He reached for his paper. Mrs. Stanton. She sounded stacked, a real femme fatale. A harsh knock came on his outside door.
not a woman’s knock, and yet, there she was.
“she’s a murderess
This mattered not to him now
Private eye smitten”
Written 4-29-2019
Contest: Pick a title, volume 4 – Haibun
Prompt #2: The private eye and the femme fatale
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
I’m Packing and She’s Packing
I’m a film noir private eye and I’ve got my eye on this voluptuous dame. I’m investigating the murder of her rich husband and searching for clues. Because deep in my gut, her sweet demeanor made me suspicious and I smelled a rat no matter how much charm she exuded.
My research told me she used to be a barmaid in a well heeled club and her gentlemen friends (they weren’t gentlemen) sought her out and she could pick and choose. During my questioning , her sorrow consisted of martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I questioned her candidly and she answered as well in a sultry way. I was tempted but I had to be hard and in control of my misguided hormones. but I was determined seek the truth.
she swayed me
But I was on to her
time will tell
The Private Eye and the Femme Fatale
Halibun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
April 25, 2019
You hate your job,
but you're good at what you do
A paid shadow
who follows the trail of indiscretions
that other people lead you to
You're a gumshoe,
sticking to the assignment given you
Like a bloodhound on the scent,
another philanderer is going down
once you catch them in the act
Innuendo and suspicion becomes legal fact
And there's a bonus in it for you,
if you can get the aggrieved party the yacht too
Even still, you hate your job
It cost you a marriage,
and a normal family life
Walking the grimy streets,
back alleys and gutters
The underbelly of society is rife
with corruption and debauchery
This is what your private eyes see ...
so much dirt tracked back home to your family
It made your ex-wife not trust you
as much as she should
Made your children lives sad
from the taunts in the neighborhood
That's why you hate your job,
but you're so good at what you do
Everybody in high society wants to hire you,
opening up their blank checkbooks ...
with a couple more zeroes added too
You're a private eye,
living the Sam Spade life
Ain't nothing wrong with that,
being the good guy, wearing the black hat
It’s a cold dark night on this end of town
The street lights above flicker to a rhythm
Standing, waiting, why? I don’t exactly know.
But I’ll continue here and remain a shadow.
There, the door opened and she walked out.
She was a beauty, makeup done so right.
The show was flawless, she was perfection.
She turned to her friends and said goodnight.
Stepping out to the street, she hailed a taxi,
“Fifty second and third, quickly” she said.
The Whitman Motel, room 303 like always
Is where she meets that man, takes him to bed.
A sorry life she has, a sick husband at home,
But she finds the time to get what she needs.
I, I work for the husband. Paid eyes for him,
In the morning I’ll give him the pictures to see.
Who knows what will happen after the news,
Confirmation of suspicions, proof to be shown.
Will they divorce, or will it be much worse?
I don’t really care, no reason to know.
My next job waits. A woman will pay me.
Husband works late each evening she thinks.
But, I’ll do some digging and report the good news
Then spend all the dough on cheap broads and drinks.