Back then she was called Babydoll,a spark from mommy’s fever dream;their heaped station wagon zig-zaggedto try-outs with soulless faces. P(r)imped in ringlets and pink ruffles,back then she was called Babydoll.She batted her eyes; dimpled herway onto marquees nation-wide. Sedatived for conveniencethat by teenhood became habit.Back then she was called Babydoll.The offers changed, the lights now…
Tag: The Sunday Muse
TSM 165 — Serve
You, an ambassador,might like a long string of pearls.You’re gonna be the Devil, prancing on the stage.They may call you chief,but a trooper gonna have tobe Lord, have to be landlord.Preacher Pride bribes somebody’s heir.Zimmy, no matter what you say,you’re gonna have to serve. Today’s offering is an erasure poem gleaned from Bob…
TSM 164 — I am the one…
I am the one who forms the vesselsfrom cosmoplasm’s clayalthough ten thousand theories willswirl forever as to how all comes about. Despite your impulse to thank or blameme, the one who forms the vessels,know the way of things are as they arewhether or not you choose to pray. From each atom of your grieving tearsto…
The Sunday Muse 163 — Cello Girl
The cicadas awake to see peonies bloomas the girl with the cello plays songs in the park;where their drones rise with ginger sweet, scented perfume; metronomes setting time with the random dog’s bark.Lovers lie in soft grass / fingers trail arms and cheekswhere the assembled chorus remains until dark. At the edge of the park…
The Sunday Muse 162 — White Mums
Puzzled crow envies the puddled stillness of the moon tonight. Even clouds flee the stale smell of worm castings after the storm. Your screams were silenced in thunder; white mums will grace your tombstone. Today’s offering is in the form of a Sijo, a three-line poem that is believed to have first appeared in…
The Sunday Muse 161 — Once a Year
Once a year dies the sun at the church on the hill when the mist shroud’s just right and the birds become still. When the bell rings unbid lest we ever forget that we acted as one — once a year dies the sun. They were born in a drought; mother died giving birth. Preacher…
The Sunday Muse 160 — Good Time
July’s spell wrote itself nut brown on her sweat-kissed back. They said sometime after noon. Fondling the warm iron gatepost,her thick, hungry thighs arrivedat 11. He stumbled out, pale and squinting,open palm arched over his head,itching for a shower. “Hey, loverboy, remember me?” For a man released early for good time,he was about to be…
Tao Talk 