I tackled a project I’ve avoided for a year
creepy hiding mice was my fear.
I never take on a project in a teensy, tiny toe-tasting way
As expected, after getting started, this took most of my day
I would love to say that I was able to conquer the entire pile
Lying about this would be easy to see by my crooked smile
I was inspired by the progress to think about taking it on again tomorrow
It is less daunting now, does not bring me half as much sorrow
Thinking of the disgust of my children if I were to unexpectedly die
Kept me throwing away junk until my trash pile hit the sky
I raised one neatnik and two hoarder daughters with piles of their own
I have already lost three dogs and a cat, this mess has way overgrown
Also inspiring me was the fact that my retirement can be a bore.
Watching TV in a recliner means my slippered feet rarely hit the floor
I wanted a project, something new and different to do.
Sorting out this junk and throwing was long overdue.
They planted trees but forgot their water.
Each leaf a wrinkled newspaper clipping
from a world I never subscribed to.
Noise here is curated.
A choir of car horns, a sermon of drills
but I hear the silence
between footsteps
and the echo
of one slippered child
crossing the pedestrian overpass
with rice in a plastic bag.
My eyes collect
forgotten wrappers,
graffiti prayers,
the melancholy
of sky cut by concrete.
They say you must harden in Manila.
But I cracked
gently,
like an eggshell left in heat.
She fell into his arms, so sweet
He swept her off her glass-slippered feet
But you’ve heard all this before
They climbed into a golden carriage
Where he took her hand, proposing marriage
But you’ve heard all this before
Kissing madly, their quivering lips so wet
They rode off into the summer sunset
~ Scalding their tushies to ash
they called her cinder, called her dust
a girl to scorn, a thing to crush
but embers sleep and coals still burn
and wicked hands will take their turn
she sewed her gown from moonlit screams
spun silver thread from shattered dreams
the glass upon her feet was red
from all the tears her hands had bled
the ball was bright, a golden snare
but she was shadow standing there
the prince, a pawn, so soft, so sweet
she danced him raw on bleeding feet
his lips met hers--his breath turned ice
a kiss of ruin, cold as vice
for midnight struck and so did she
no fairy god, no mercy free
she left behind no slippered trace
just shattered glass, an empty face
and when the dawn revealed the floor
the prince would dance--nevermore
4 o’clock on a Sunday, shadows skate
on cinder block walls.
Calico cries crease and fold
the still evening air.
She pushes a cart, plastic wheels
grating warped concrete.
Dry dust stains the stones,
as she shuffles slippered feet,
silent as a snowy alley.
The cart parks on the corner of Hill and Nottingham.
She sets ceramic saucers on the wall
and fills them both with seventy-year-old
dexterity and homemade tuna salad.
The meows pour forth in a matted wave.
We all sip lemonade and smoke long
cigarettes from the porch as we watch
Miss Dowry’s Stray Cat Buffet.
All heaven's hosts rise early Autumn nights
A million stars a-twinkling merrily
The moon reflecting sun's diurnal light
Silhouetting lovers, snuggling cozily
My fireplace crackles, warming slippered toes
A whistle from the kettle on the stove
The doorbell rings; in cold like this, who goes
Come in, dear friend, do not this cold night rove
The stranger enters, shiv'ring head to toe
His face pale blue above his knitted brow
Removes his gloves; into his hands he blows
He would yet tell his tale, but knows not how
Exhausted steps, and then he stumbles, falls
~His story's buried deep within my walls
(Iambic Pentameter)
My Christmas tree in sparkling dress
stands in my window to impress.
She smiles at all the passersby.
She waves hello. She is not shy.
She winks at all the trees she sees
in nearby houses on the street.
She seems to shiver with delight
counting the minutes till midnight.
For one late hour wakened from sleep
through the dark house on slippered feet
I crept, while up, to catch a glance
of tinseled Christmas ambiance.
Outside the window daintily
danced my glittering Christmas tree!
With others down the street and back!
They twirled around the cul-de-sac!
Amazed I gazed quiet and still,
propped against the window sill, till
tired but thrilled I left to resume
much needed rest in my bedroom.
I heard giggling in early light
when she slipped in and stood just right.
But, she leaves needles everywhere
and ornaments dropped here and there.
She’ll have her fun till New Year’s Day,
then take a nap all tucked away.
Next year she’ll dress and dance again
with all her many merry friends.
12/11/2018
Single slippered Cinderella
Yesternight’s ball bella
Angelic voices heard a cappella
Followed by lovely clarabella
The dinner served was paella
With a side of shredded mozzarella
While faking a case of salmonella
Cinderella invited her fella
To follow her into the cella
Lingering aroma of citronella
With a pleasant tinge of canella
No secrets told near mimicking corella
Misplacing both shoe and umbrella
[ Clarabella = instrument much like a flute; Cella = a room in a temple; Corella = a cockatoo ]
AP: 3rd place 2025
Submitted on April 28, 2018 for contest ANY RHYMING POEM IN APRIL sponsored by LAURA LOO - RANKED 4TH
"SUPERSTAR"
You’re a diamond
Superstar
wonderful
dancing barefoot
Godiva
riding bareback
ocean rides
Stand, lift your heart
up in your hands,
the World’s your everlasting
Shining Shrine
Ultra cool shooting Sunbeam
Zephyr in your own
BLUE SKIES
Daisy Chain resplendent
freedom Queen Bee Crown
LOVE ONE ANOTHER
stand together
Girlfriend, you just
need to dig deep
See what I see in you
BELIEVE
L’il Sista. X
Big Sista.
You’re walking with
the hidden power
of a magical
Yellow Brick Road
Red Ruby slippered
Mega Watt Electric
Twisting Tornado
spitting out a
brand new
Diamond
Lady Godiva
SUPERSTAR
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
For my daughter, Georgia, given freely, with ALL MY LOVE.
And any other Sista’, needing some balm for her blisters...I couldn't resist ya...
1. "Hey Girl" / Gaga & Florence
https://youtu.be/ZGo1Cstx24I
2.
https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/putting-an-end-to-shaming-and-criticizing-other-women_us_587534d0e4b08052400ee69c
MOON GLOW
The dark night now light
Moon glow on my slippered feet
The stars beyond night
It’s the seemingly endless five minute walk up the lightly graveled, manure filled drive, dodging the expired cow patties, led by the dim light of the reflection of the moon on the thin tattered blanket of snow.
It’s the smell of livestock resting on the hills in the distance, which burns the interior of my dry frozen nostrils. The elated barks of my furry companions pierce the cold silence as they wait for my arrival with sopping, wet tongues in the smoke filled house of broken families past.
It’s the aged, exhausted face that waits at the door, instantly brightened, energized by my reckless youthfulness. We sit in our self sabotage on a very tattered loveseat, in bizarre contentment with smiling hearts, a cup of warm chamomile balanced by slippered feet. The faint hum of a ukulele, the TV waiting for a command, as it plays the remains of a long expired program that was prompted by the other.
It’s the feeling I have when I drink that cup of hot tea. The way my heart feels in a certain presence of another. The eagerness to get to the top of the snow covered driveway to this place I call home.
Her radiant beauty crested, wave ebbing,
summer shakes her flowing green free of cooling rains;
yet, stubbornly they linger, gathering
in misty gray garlands about her peaks.
Decay's first browns creep among the flowers,
drab omens of pallid landscapes soon to come.
Vain summer! Water mirrors she left scattered
reflect from every concave surface of the ground.
Fearful of the season's ending glory,
she reaches for a gown only a queen could wear--
parading field and forest in cascading folds of crimson velvet.
Brilliant oranges, scarlet, gold weave her leafing harvest crown;
Her saffron slippered feet trip down a path of aging green.
Even the moon grows large with October envy,
but he cannot out do her flamboyant display;
his grand act only lasts a moment
compared to summer's pretentious autumnal show.
She hangs on, only brown remaining,
wringing out every vestige of our praise...
until winter comes, ice bragging, to steal the last away.
Copyright, August 28, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
The clouds drape low,
shrugging blue mountain shoulders,
melding with ghostly river mist
ascending in specterous vapor trails
salted with primordial tears.
Between stately mottled sycamores
and aged medicinal white oaks,
slippered phantom figures glide,
clad in hides of deer and mountain lion.
Down to the silvered stream--
a mirror for chalky spirits and bright stars--
they slip to drink of pristine springs.
The powerful spell impacts within, without,
invading every animated sense.
A dream, an apparition?
I wonder at the dawn of bright sun rising,
green moss clad boulders warmed, fog dissipated.
I discern the curious sensation
of withdrawing from an ancient trance.
The happy river dances down the valley,
bordered in mountain laurel ruffles, pink;
the fragrance of breakfast bacon wafts,
a tantalizing, hunger inducing wave,
and campers' laughter echoes off a dream.
Copyright, August 19, 2014
ON THE TOUR BUS IN SAN MAR-ANDORRA-STEIN
“We are older than your George Washington;
We have the tallest fields of cotton
West of the Volga; and our castles are small
But all guaranteed to enthrall.......”
It appears this swing-a-cat country
With its pipsqueak army
Of skirt-swinging, fur-slippered,
Medieval-style soldiers carrying a halbard
Has a National Income less, if you please,
Than most big western companies.
Oil comes not in a pipelines, but a tube’ll do
(Costing many hundreds of roubles too.)
“McDonalds came here five years ago -
Their first restaurant east of the Po.
KFC will be coming next year -
It will be a national holiday here......”
I climb wearily back aboard
Our tour bus here abroad.
I don’t wish to seem quirky
But I’d rather be home in Albuquerque.
.....................................................................................
Note
Verses in quotes are the tour guide voice. Other verses are the tourist’s
thoughts.
With the unlikely proposition that winter would end
green tips took
form
beneath the softening crust of snow around the
mail
box, a
collage congealed by road salt and sand
buried the early dream of spring in
a
granular mass
My slippered feet sank muddying the soft
sheepskin leather. Joggers pushing the envelope
as well
people the curb
cutting to the heart of the matter
springing forward with a rabid desire to bloom.
*I printed out Charlotte's contest direction and cut out the first word
in each of these lines.
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