ROSE-COLORED GLASSES
“When you think about a show that you used to watch as a kid or as a teenager, you look at it through sort of rose-colored glasses…”Jordana Brewster
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In memory’s soft glow,
the TV screen flickers alive,
time stretches like taffy,
the theme song lingers, a melody
transporting me through the portal of childhood.
The laughter of a cartoon,
the adventure of a western,
the wisdom of a sitcom,
a sprinkle of magic dust,
and suddenly, the mundane was extraordinary.
In the sepia tones of nostalgia,
I find a bittersweet truth:
the rose-colored glasses
tint the past with warmth,
softening the edges of reality.
those moments, though fleeting,
are the roots of who I am,
the laughter still lingers,
and the magic?
It lives on, like a rerun.
Like old paint,
the discarded heart chips away
where it lay
in a hollow chest
not unlike my own breast.
In its prime,
untainted by sin
and made of sheepskin,
its candy apple hue
captivated everyone—especially the likes of you.
However, who now
could admire a color
so mottled by misuse and so drastically duller?
Verily, no unclouded eye could find merit
in such a sorry trinket.
I do enjoy imbibing a vintage libation
now and again (and again, and again)
but when I thought I'd bought
the best bottle of Bordeaux money can buy,
then looked at the label on the back,
before pulling the cork, I nearly had a heart attack.
'Characterised by a great body,' it stated,
'velvety cedar and hazelnut texture,'
but my taste buds went unsated,
'with an intense deep ruby red colour,' to summarise,
'possesses exceptional aromas of cherries,'
and much to my surprise,
'with hints of vanilla, blackcurrant, raspberries,
cassis and tobacco which reveal
a long, chocolaty finish and a good mouth feel.'
Altho' this above-average beverage may in time be fine,
I'm truly convinced no grapes were unduly harmed
in the making of this wine!
Images from a cogged box.
A camera reveals
hips and ankles, ribbons
decorously draped
over a contrived modesty.
An artist has added a color tint,
their cheeks are rosy,
their lips red,
a patchwork of painted glow.
Half revealed bosoms flush and bloom.
Pauses in an upper room.
A warm lamp licks,
feathers and brocade are adjusted.
The girls choreograph
next moves.
A gentleman photographer
toggles knurled brass knobs
throws a veiling drape over
his head and mind.
The models are beyond
this moments capture,
they are sealed by silence,
yet their images,
their one-act legacy,
is an amber inclusion
raised up as a photograph
for all to admire in secret.
Seven and one, open gates!
Zero, cancel wild!
He who suffers, first berates!
Listen, auld to child!
Errors of the prophets?
By necessity, none.
Perfect record, get the fits?
Oracle, scion, pun?
Ergo, O my time and space!
As above, below!
Meteor, dark fire, displace.
Broken, O my bow...
Dread, thy bed. Bend back, bring. Born.
Death, thy sacred sand.
Dagger, axe, hell, heaven, horn.
Doom within all, planned...
Falcon, fix sight fast on fate.
Coals of wrong to burn.
Sight of silver haze, my krait?
Venom, how you churn.
Furious the strait? Hate? Why?
Out and holding on?
River, bluegill, is a-sly!
Sea-bass, take the pawn!
Tallest mountain, reply? Well...
Think on that awhile.
Hope, accrue? Cast well thy spell:
Quill, seek. Gentle, guile.
Vine, grow o'er. Hinterland, seethe.
Break on cliff, vast wave.
He who bereaved last did breathe.
Others, foot in grave.
I collect the ingredients to make a fine valentines box
lacy white paper doilies, silver gummy stars, vintage valentines
a crisp new Sketchers Box in pristine shape
Elmer’s glue, a stapler, markers and glitter
Let’s make your valentines box, I say to my granddaughter
She is nine; she shows me that she has a virtual box
Her classmates send her electronic valentines
“it’s the way we do it now, grandma”.
I am horrified.
I really want to make a vintage valentines day box.
She agrees, and we make it together.
She is kind, and pretends she will use it someday.
To satisfy her grandma.
Those white gray hairs
Unshaved moustache
Aged with wisdom.
In your vintage gold design
you lay in brilliant elegance-
a memory of our yesteryear
held in the highest esteem;
words flew through the air.
Image 4
my closet defines my soul . . .
it is me
love anything vintage
in blouses, dresses, jackets
my own whimsical style . . .
in lovely soft materials
pretty floral patterns
oh, divine are vintage black shoes and boots
purses and accessories
like earrings, necklaces, and bracelets
and lets not forget lace
gosh, so sublime is the touch
inherited most of my collection
from great-grandma and grandma
treasures from the past
that suit where I am in life
but, I am always on the search for vintage
clothing in thrift shops
to find
soft, delicate, feminine, lovely
mysterious things
Her hips leaves her loves,
Kisses in the wind,
As she sashays luminous,
As a champagne moon,
The vintage shore,
Unwinds in the ultra neon lights,
As bonfires hymn in the starry nights,
Her vintage sashay,
Inwardly lit, from the sweetness,
that tenderly strides,
Its as if she glides,
Her beauty in the candles of our love
Reynaldo Casison
born into an aura of swirling purples
hues of violet and amethyst
a flower
given a sweet
vintage name
as written ...
a girl steadfast, faithful
dependable, reliable, trustworthy
dedicated friend
with courage no matter the obstacle
she loves anything vintage
an earth bound energy
a soul of moral strength
her words take you on a journey
her spirit a flowing river
God blessed her with a bright
shimmering light
the vintage homecoming dress was donated in the middle of the night.
This is a small town, in 1972. There were no security cameras.
Sue, the shop owner had asked for vintage dresses for her window display.
She had no idea what inferno of questions was going to come to her.
Sue was new in town, did not know about Peggy Lee, who was missing.
Twenty-two years now, and no one knew where she was or if she was alive.
Peggy Lee’s mother was the first one in the store after the dress appeared.
Demanding to know where it had come from, but the shop owner did not know.
The police were there by two p.m. demanding answers.
This dress had been made for Peggy Lee’s prom by her mother.
Peggy Lee had disappeared that same night. Who had brought the dress?
Sue was horrified; she truly did not know; she found it in a box on her stoop.
The police took the dress out of the window.
Would they bring it back? No one told Sue anything.
The only person who knew anything stayed in a shadow, studying her mother.
She was the same pushy woman, with gray hair now; she was glad to rile her.
Cinnamon, my childhood doll,
I barely thought of you at all -
of where you went,
or how, or when,
but I was only little then.
Now I'm crying, lost in time:
layered under years of grime,
you sit quite still
upon the shelf
and I am back inside myself.
The antique market fades away:
I reach for you amidst the fray.
My Cinnamon,
my childhood friend,
our story wasn't meant to end.
Contest sponsored by Charles Messina. June 14, 2023
Vintage Easter land is oh so gorgeous and grand
Explosive violets in purple throughout the land
egg basket in sight with embroidered holiday cloth
chicks are dancing their tiny webbed like feet off
Vintage Easter land is the place for a bunny to be
He is excited about the big day and dancing in glee
The fabulous Easter egg hunt we all anticipate.
I imagine you will all want to readily participate!
Welcome one and welcome all.
We will be here in the grass so tall.
Hiding decorated eggs hither and yon.
Don’t hide them close to the sleeping fawn.
Chantaclair
From the pleasure garden,
came the grape to ferment the vintage,
loved by pauper poet, saint, or sage.
Taste so sweet with just a hint of bite,
nectar of the gods,
but a single bottle survives, Chantaclair.
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