Hope. A little something nice

Hope.  A little something nice.

Gold necklaces dangled from her neck, into the extra-large dent of her chest, one that made her B cupped tits look like Ds.  She swayed to the terrible music and stared at the ceiling, trying her best to ignore her ex’s stare from the corner of the bar.  

He had given her nothing over the three years they dated. Nothing but this job, which was only showing off one of her many talents.  She considered this, “Nothing. He gave me zero, but this job and a few black eyes that I’d have to spend extra on for cover-up. Nothing but a life of flashing my ass and tits at truck drivers and the occasional college boy or bachelor party.  My zero would have been so much better than the zero he gave me.”

The beat changed and she slowly shimmied down, putting her hands on the stage and spreading her knees wide enough to tease the men with her tight bedazzled g-string.  Her focus travelled across her customers’ foreheads, mostly bald or hidden behind the bill of a cap.  

“He gave me a book for my birthday.  Smacked me on the ass with it and I thought we were going to get some knowledge, perhaps read something.  It was “the joy of cooking”. He’d stolen from a library.  What he was doing in a library, I’ll never guess.”

Her hands found her knee caps and she shook her hair and swayed some more under the spinning lights.  The diamond shapes of the fishnet stockings always felt good under her fingertips.  She plucked at it on her left knee, stretching it just a bit to let her customers think that these were going to be coming off soon.  Her pointed tongue grazed her top lip and her eyelids sunk to their sleepy, sexy position.  He had given her those stockings. For christmas last year.  They weren’t wrapped except in the brown Walgreen’s bag.  “Happy Christmas, Charla.  I got you something fancy this year.”  

He would always give her hope, that’s the one other thing, just a glimmer of hope, but then pull it away or replace it with something to keep her at her zero. 

Poetry inspired by Emily Dickinson

 For Pat ( looping with worry on death)

In expecting we inspire

A buzz in the mind--

Words like bees who care

To fly from the hive--

In hope is my spark --

Lightning harnessed by many --

Golden, bright, and warm --

A comfort to turn deadly.

In truth it is your way.

I chip, I coax, I try.

The story may not be  a lie

And in your mind you will die.

But in the meantime, breathe.

----

Just Sitting

Creation pushes a whisper

Across my tired brow

Colors the empty paper

Molests my current low

A time a time a time

When clocks meant much more

assaults my settled mind.

Pass by, harmless storms.

Mindful and blessedly stable,

I gaze to the backyard

From the breakfast table.

Creation can’t move this blowhard.

Father's day thought

 Dear Dad:

I now know that bottled feeling

almost volcanic with love and responsibility

but thanks to you I can untangle my son's fishing line.

You may now resume your life of fishing.

Poetry - Favorite things inspired by John Coltrane

Favorite things - definitely inspired by some true life and John Coltrane

Say there, say baby, I

I can sense that thrum

I can feel that drum

And that pluck, can you,

Pluck that low string, too?

And slow whisper some of your favorite things?

Whisper low, ya know

'bout

Kittens and such and this that and such

It don’t matter too much

Say, now, yeah that notes okay

but better yet

Send some of that clarinet my way

Tease me with a bite of that sax

Say baby, say there, I

I can curl my toe to that

Feel that finger roll

Across those keys

Yes… all of those keys

Yes, on all the keys

And, now baby,

Whisper, 

tell me, 

your 

favorite things.

----Don’t Tell My Daddyo—

It’s a Saturday night 

And I’m blessed beyond sight

I see it, it’s golden

And i got jazz blowing

And poetry flowing

You know Daddo's right?

I’ve got that gin

That old man jive

With that tonic 

And that squeea lime

I’ve got that knowing 

That innocence gone

I've got that knowing

It won’t be long

I won’t always be

This alive

---Dropping like kings---

I see that, that’s a tell

I got plenty swingin’ that 

You ain’t playing low

You swinging high

Maybe upper royalty

Ain’t no tens

I got three a them

Ain’t no jacks

house has one

Queen’s been laid low 

She gonna show?

King’s not your game

But

that finger twitch

That tell

Ahh shhhi…  it seems 

I’m out

Poetry - Inspired by Langston Hughes

—Forgettin the days

Such a thing, see, 

As forgettin the day?

My baby, she’s working

So’s it’s no Saturday.

Times ago, way back,

I’d work all M thru F

Back, way back, before I quit

an' my week was never left

Sure, it helped out, 

Sure lectricity stayed lit

Sure SHE was happier 

When SHE would just sit.

But, see, it is such a thing

A broad smile ‘cross my face

A nap at two pee emm

And forgettin all the days.

— Maybe once 💘

Just once. Come on, babe

I’m needing you to help me feel alive.

Just one time! Is all I’m asking.

Can’t you see it in my eyes?

Well, my lips are closed 

And my eyes downcast 

And you’re reading your phone

And I don’t really ask.

But just one time!  Maybe once!

Stop my thoughts, disrupt me,

Break into my world

Ask me to read my poetry.

Joy from the trees - Poetry inspired by Gwendolyn Brooks

Joy from the trees 

When I recall the few seasons of gold

The oaks so tall and gusts of warm and cold

Stealing the sheen of sweat from my skin

Like God whispering You may sit again,

I tell myself, brick by brick, stone by stone

That Summer’s swelter should not stick around.

The gnats and no-see-ums, uncut blades of grass

Lows of depressions brought by fiery endless blasts

The light I love. The AM songs. The shoeless walks

On the green lush thickened lawn. And then it stops

And I feel the heat, the overwork, and hear the AC

Calls like the leaves’ crunch underfoot, remembering me

As if they’ve missed my being, in the heat of the sun

And they insist on my sitting with them for a strum.

The few autumns I’ve had, as they lengthen as one,

Won’t brick over the summer labor and  fun

But with the gold in the leaves and the gray in my hair

I won’t pluck joy from the trees, it will be falling right there.

Poetry - Saturday AM after Friday debauchery

Oars on the waters

Everything that falls

like a beat of a drum

leaves from a tree

- that’s so over done -

oars on the waters

driving 

you in 

or pulling

you out

one after another

closer or further?

you can’t tell 

from where you are.

You can't tell your There.

You can only tell your Here. 

---- 

tossed be the stones

burned be the logs

sticks and leaves 

the newsprint, the impetus

gone be the time 

it arrived like the stars

swooshing in ways that only stars

can swoosh, and tick be gone

so be my thoughts

needling and poking thru

my fabric

then retreat

--- 

If entwined, fingers in mine

we two step to the bridge

For A begets B

and so on we’ll see

skipping and laughing

into this

only pearls gleaming

at the feet of swine?

or diamonds  unearthed 

from a hidden mine?

a nudge now

and in we go

two drips into the waters

below.

 #SlapDashSat