The tempo of the music
adds energy to the rhythm of the night,
and the pulse of warm blood rushing through sinewy veins.
The mixture of perspiring bodies,
cheap perfume, and tepid whiskey adds a pungent aroma
that permeates even the tattered tablecloths.
The scene, obscured by dimness
and a haze that slowly envelops the dusty paper lanterns,
gives the room an eerie ghost-like glow.
Writhing, creeping forms
undulate, moving sensuously
to the repeated thumping of resonating bass strings.
The soulful melody of the saxophone
weaves its way over, around and through the crowd
as it playfully caresses the thick air.
Remote conversations and laughter
mix with bold encouragements from the crowd
as a lone dancer, with little effort, executes her sexy, sultry moves.
A breeze blows, ever so slightly,
as the door opens and more revelers enter the stifling room,
the lanterns swaying in the breeze.
A thin shaft of moonlight slowly creeps across the bare floor
as the aroma, the haze and the music
waft through the opening and into the rhythm of the night.
Picnic
Button-ups and tablecloths
lay it down and see it through
Just when you thought it was said and done
He’s going hoody- over you
2012
velvet draperies
gold victorian brocade
showroom opulence
touches of crystal
gorgeous furnishings
an antique mirror
linen tablecloths
succulent meat fragrances
exquisite dining
The Laundry Room
Aprons folded flat, tablecloths left lying on their back,
Black patent baby shoes piled in a stack
Against the tower of towels needed for a bath.
Dusty duvets rolled out of use
Toilet mats, underwear , socks all loose.
An ironing board, stands full of abuse
The sadness I feel is so profuse.
I am not made for these modern times
Missouri mud runs through my veins
unspoiled country air flows through my lungs.
my roots are intertwined in the bedrock
of culture, traditions and folklore
of a pioneer Midwest
My heart beats with the rhythm
of wind through oak trees
the sway of golden wheat
steady fall of summer rain
on metal porch roofs
My voice is the sound
of pickup trucks on gravel roads
tractors plowing through gumbo
hoot of owls from leaning red barns.
yip of foxes or the howl of coyotes from
across green pastures under full moon’s glow
trumpeting of roosters greeting the day
song of blue jays, cardinals,
red wing blackbirds
caw of crows pecking through early snow
on harvested corn fields
beat of horse hooves
lazy bawling of cows
My nostrils are filled
with the smell of
wildflower meadows,
fresh baled hay
alfalfa, soybeans,
and apple blossoms
I am lightning bugs on summer’s eve
coon hounds asleep on sunlit porches
family picnics on red checkered tablecloths
horseshoes, freeze tag and kick the can
I am unlocked doors and open windows
rocking chairs and back porch swings
I am outdated
The ship of dreams
Opulent surroundings
Fancy bed linens
Luxurious dinner plates and tablecloths
Gleaming virginal utensils
Dazzling crystal chandeliers
Polished walnut woodwork
Gold gilded fireplaces
Wardrobes ready for furs and dresses
An experienced captain
Eager staff
Bustling activity
Musicians, artists, businessmen aboard
High ranking officials, wealthy industrialists, celebrities
Cruising flawlessly in clear blue sea
A haven and heaven during the day
Easy sleeping and dreaming in the evening
J.P. Morgan was disappointed to have to cancel at the last minute
Four glorious days of sailing
Around Midnight April 15th, 1912 the Titanic struck an iceberg
The chunk of devilry slashed a three-hundred-foot gash in the hull
Haphazard evacuation ensued
First lifeboat could have held sixty-five people
It left with twenty-eight
The dream ship broke in half after filling halfway up with water
In two hours fifteen hundred people died
The majority of them froze to death in the North Atlantic
Specially caught shells and pearls,
still lace is woven with worn fingers.
The anointed ten, working together,
crochet a web of intricate design.
Shells on the sandy shelf satisfy,
but doilies and tablecloths linger.
For long in darkness and flickering,
scented candles and burgundy wine.
Pearls of buttons and bows preen,
but a veil of mantilla lace whispers.
The free flow of digits and knuckles -
gentle, well-versed - her palm’s a vine.
Round and round, her wrists writhe,
breath’s aligned within the scriptures.
the dining hall is half empty
because it is friday - shabbat
and good jews light candles at home
not such a good jew i am out
with my female friend both of us
dressed for the late winter evening
conversation is light, muted
mostly about the eggplant dish
i'm having or calimari
my elegant friend is having
while the wizened broad in the back
plays dulcet tones on the steinway
my mind drifts from the idle talk
as i think how at such a place
with the white tablecloths
quiet music and low lighting
they shot dead rosie rosenthal
when he stepped outside for a smoke
i half expect to get shot too
when at length the dinner concludes
and we rejoin the chilly night
with near regret i note i'm not
for they'd recall me like rosie
and i'd not wake up still alone
A lady and a pillow
I read about a woman who, when going abroad
takes a pillow from her bedroom, one with printed flowers
and smells of yesterday’s shampoo and rinse
not a silly little heart-shaped pillow was given to
the newlywed with a knowing wink and smarmy smile
so, what do I know about anatomy or the structure
of a skeleton?
The lady with her cushion doesn’t stay in the youth motel
but a proper hotel, where they say: “Does the madam
like a cup of tea? She sweetly smiles, wishing the question
had been of a sultry nature
The roaming woman visits art galleries and museums
dines at a nice restaurant that has white tablecloths
wide chairs and soft music
“Does the madam like dessert?” She sweetly smiles, but
wishes the question had been daring, what she whispers
to the pillow.
I watched a sparrow on the ground
With an insistent tweet.
Another bird flew over,
Bringing her a bite to eat.
This ritual repeated,
With some crumbs from beak to beak.
I Googled this behavior and
I learned I’d had a peek
At a fine display of courtship,
Not so different from our own.
Without the wine and tablecloths,
A seed had still been sown.
I guess it’s universal -
When it comes to pitching woo,
The sharing of a meal is what
Most couples tend to do.
My heart is an empty suitcase
That I store in the attic
It waits for me to fill it with all the things I need to leave.
One time I took it down overhead
stepping on the stepladder
down to the hall to my closet,
And filled it with carefully folded shirts and pants and good looking things
Thinking about the tablecloths and napkins that were folded neatly at a great restaurant where I’d sit across from you
After landing and driving and picking you up and driving and sitting down.
My navy blue, hardshell suitcase had an old airline tag that an airport girl abruptly ripped off before putting on a fresh new one.
I thought about her green eyes while you and I had dinner that night.
When I got home, I unpacked and threw everything on the floor and carried my empty suitcase back up to the attic.
But when I got down from the attic stairs,
Your turquoise scarf was laying on top of the clothes
And I thought of your eyes
Before they closed
While I watched them
last night.
lavender umbrellas
floral teacups
fancy china plates
muffled conversations
dainty berry scones
crisp white doilies
shy looks
wedge of brie
cucumber sandwiches
tiny titters
chocolate truffles
crisp linen tablecloths
caramel lattes
fragrance of the gods
Paris Cafe
I remember well those eyes that sparkled every year on Valentines day
mom would adorn the dining area with red tablecloths and fresh flowers
A beloved Cupid kept vigil by the kitchen window as she shooed us away
from the melt in your mouth cupcake ganache, too soon to be devoured
Music streamed from an old radio, Barbra crooning to "The way Were"
dishes set side by side, while her Fleur De Rocaille wafted in like a blur
dad clean shirted and thankful bowed his head in prayer to St. Valentine,
Patron Saint Of Love, after all it was his day and so we drank a little wine
Years later she died but each Valentine's day dad brought home cupcakes
we'd sit around the table and recall the years she would bake up gems
it was a tradition we didn't have the heart to destroy, so we did partake
each year as if she were still here. When the rose died, I saved the stem
I recall her smile and the way she celebrated every moment of the day,
Cupid gets stored every year but he always returns, it was mom's way.
Feb 19m 2021
I remember them days
When the bunting was hung.
From lampost to gate post
Was the thing to be done
Mis-matched tables
All together in a row.
Covered in tablecloths
Union jacks on show
All of the neighbors
Making sandwiches and treats.
I remember being so eager
To get my seat.
Then all of us would smile,
For there was so much food
We would be here for a while.
After we had eaten all that we can,
That's when the real fun and games began.
Mothers and fathers
All tied at the knee.
Racing each other was so funny to see.
We would race,
But stood in a sack.
I don't think I ever made it there and back.
The fun would continue
Right into the night.
With fun and laughter
And not one single fight.
I miss them times,
I want them back,
With my table full of food
And my union jack.
I'll take the gray canvas and paint it,
To make life Shine a hundredfold.
Every day I will decorate with a palette.
I will weave pearls of rewards in them.
I'll go through memory like a rainbow,
Paint a black-and-white movie,
I'll paint all the tablecloths white,
And I'll throw my sadness away.
I will erase the gray color from the canvas,
Its texture will be thrown out of memory.
I'll make a new hundred tomorrow,
And can be in orange ornament.
I'll paint a mental light bulb
To burn them even in the night
And they warmed my tender fingers
And sent the sad away.
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