owl loved turtlenecks especially in red
Give me a cowl, I’ll wear it until I am dead
There was a fierce wind, it had a big howl
A huge beast flew past, another kind of fowl
Was that a raven or crow? Owl asked a pal
I do not know, she said I’m a near-sighted gal
They noted the black bird had a looped jowl
Dripping from it was a giant I, their favorite vowel.
I wonder after his black spectacles,
if I could recognize his phantom's scare
by his bandy left foot, something he'd wear:
constrictor turtlenecks, cowboy buckles
his trials decided by flayed knuckles
his tombstone eyes, the depth of night they bear.
I wonder at the factors of his fear
as I adorn him with cherry jewels.
Your bass breathes, haply, the contents of love;
it whispers to me my shadows' secrets,
but dark articles ingesting your name,
face-eating barnacles that smutch our flame.
I'll be glad —a pigeon may be a dove—
to sprinkle Shakespeare over your Poe's grunts.
No need to creep in surreptitiously
as if you were not longed for
You turtlenecks and warm wool socks
are dashing in or out of doors
Sensing that I'd tired of green
your refreshments I adore
Crisp burnt-orange and fiery red
leave me thirsty for some more
Though soon you'll trade the dew for frost
replace iced tea with hot
Precious Fall: Take center stage deservedly
~ for 'creepy' you are not
He wore his big gaudy oversize rolex
Chewing on some tex-mex with his ex
Forever flipping through his rolodex
On the phone with gents and rednecks
He’d invite his clientele to a fashion vortex
On the main floor of his triplex
Where he sold suits in the annex
And quality unisex turtlenecks
In exchange for cash and cheques
When he’d run out he’d offer rainchecks
Or start showing off some fancy crewnecks
Everything to get noticed at discotheques
AP: 3rd place 2021
I feel a sense of déjà vu as I listen
to the cacophony of voices:
dilettantes discussing poetry
under baroque chandeliers. Masquerading
as avant-garde writers or bona fide critics
(black turtlenecks; color is an anomaly and suspicious),
they claim carte blanche to spew
pompous platitudes,
pronounce entire oeuvres as lacking elan
while all they create is endless ennui.
1/22/2018
For contest: Contest: Ten Words Ten Lines 2
Sponsor: Silent One
MY WINTER
Prepared for this cold winter?
Tree fronds hang their heads,
flashing lights hang tight.
Bowed and bollixed presents —
depressed. The absence of
a merry Spring — the empty nest.
Emotions chill, shiver...
Turtlenecks without hugs.
The whiteout of snow —
knees shovel the heavy load.
Deleterious decorations,
keepsakes of holiday romance —
kids sledding and cutting cookies,
hot chocolate and kindled laughter.
Icicles cling like burs
to my dendrites,
stinging my eyes.
Yet, jingle bells soon ring,
with Nor’easter winds —
grandchildren chill for a season.
and with chattering teeth, I grin.
11/19/2017
Viv Wigley’s My Winter Contest
I listen to the young men
in their black turtlenecks
who spit their consonants forcefully
in cryptic metaphors
about the state of the world.
Their work makes me think.
I guess this means it is good.
But I will never be
one of the edgy poets.
The sight of a bare tree
tugs on my soul,
and the stones whisper to me,
and I must write
about the lonely winter rain
and the cherry blossoms –
in softer voice,
simpler words,
a few lines to sketch
the small, quiet wonders
I so love.
April 23, 2017
To be a woman, there is a lot of wonder
There are lots of beauty secrets to ponder
That goes beyond the powder
That breathes the living power
Leggings and shorts seize the moment
Maxi dresses and mini skirts twirl in enjoyment
Flowers and blossoms of spring make a statement
Coats and furs of winter cover with endearment
Eye brushed the turtlenecks caressingly soothe
Hair styled each line and curl is made smooth
The heels and bags all live in the couture truth
The woman in her shines in a beautiful cool
In tights and ice cream she shows
Self esteemed within her, outside of her she knows
Today is spring and here’s the thing –
It seems to play the part.
The weather’s slightly warmer
And it’s sunny – that’s a start.
Some buds have poked up from the soil
And birds have started singing.
I ditched my scarf and hat
But to my turtlenecks, I’m clinging.
For I am not the trusting sort
And spring’s a fickle season.
Tomorrow may be cold again –
There is no rhyme or reason.
So though we all should welcome spring
And hope it’s here for good,
Before I pack my wools away,
I think I’ll knock on wood.
Summer’s time to take a break
From work, from home, from school,
By traveling to someplace new
Or lounging by the pool.
If may be only for a week
Or for a month or two,
But it’s an opportunity
For more than barbecue.
The longer warmer days support
A change in our routines.
Our shorts and tank tops take the place
Of turtlenecks and jeans.
The weather even alters meals;
On lighter fare we dine,
With lemonade or ice-cold beer
Or sips of chilled white wine.
It’s good to take advantage
Of this annual transition.
If life’s a play, then summertime
Is surely intermission.
forget your question mark,
you have said enough already.
smoking in between complex gestures.
forget your gestures.
i feel better about things that way.
silent that is....
there is no absurdity in silence no
over indulgence or half filled jagged innuendo's.
i dont think i like the word innuendo,
it makes me think of phychiatrist in turtlenecks.
i need to forget about phyciatrist in turtlenecks
sitting with thier legs crossed like double
edged question marks.
i think there are cheap prints of claude
monet on the wall.
i need to forget about the cheap claude monet
prints and rooms filled with innuendo's.
perhaps i could swallow them like when i was
a child playing with my chef boyardee soup the
letters floating around in swirls.
lucky for me i have a word like silence that is
canabilistic silence consumes innuendo's
and turtlenecked phychiatrist.
silence consumes everything if you are patient enough.
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