dead flowers

For Kerry’s Camera Flash prompt at Real Toads.

dead flowers
in the morning
the sadness of summer sun
seeps through the curtains,
warmth seen but not felt –
the soap smells of flowers
wilted and long dead

Morning by Clarence White 1906 fair use

The Peacock Room

The Wee Notes: Another poem in my Dorian Grey series.  I am using these poems and the study of the times to get my MFA, hopefully by the end of summer. I have written a fictional epistolary poem from Dorian to James Whistler. Oscar Wilde toured America in 1882 and 1883. He and James Whistler were constantly scoring points off each other while holding court at the Café Royal in London. Whistler had finished his famous Peacock Room at the house of Frederick Richards Leyland. Thomas Jeckyll, another British architect/artist experienced in the Anglo-Japanese style, was originally commissioned. Jeckyll fell ill and the room became the responsibility of James Whistler. It was completed in 1877. The room was originally entitled Symphony in Blue and Gold and is one of the finest examples of interior art by Whistler. The portrait which is showcased in the room is entitled the Princess from the Land of Porcelain and the model is Christina Spartali. Both Whistler and Leyland were fascinated by Spartali and it became the basis for a financial disagreement between Patron and Artist. So much for the wee notes for this quadrille.  Posted for dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille Monday and Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

public domain

The Peacock Room
“Mauve is just pink trying to be purple.” James Whistler
“Memory … is the diary we carry about with us.” Oscar Wilde

Dear James,
This new world makes me feel old. San Francisco in the rain
Is not nearly as lovely as London. The reflections of buildings are too sharp –
the colours muted. Your favorite dartboard will soon return to the Café Royal.
Eternally,
Dorian

Princess from the Land of Porcelain – James Whistler

Little Kitty

For Day 21 of Nanomargarine or whatever…this is for Brendan’s prompt over at Real Toads, 30 in 30.  This is about an animal of myth or legend or as I like to call it, after one of my favorite movies, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.  This is also for Sunday’s Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Little Kitty
Little kitty,
Do you know you were once worshipped in Egypt
as a goddess?
Did you know you were once considered
the protector of the Pharoah,
that women desiring children
would wear your image around their necks
and that the number of children they wanted
would be represented by the number of kittens
depicted with you?
Did you know as Bastet
you were protector of perfumes,
and medicinal ointments, that you guarded
against contagion and evil spirits and vermine?
In the personification of Bast
you were depicted as a hunting lioness –
the most powerful hunter in Egypt?
As Bast and Bastet you brought together
the Upper and Lower Kingdoms of Egypt?
Little kitty,
I would like to dress you in gold jewelry
and let you eat off my plate
and wander at will and have people
bow to you, to have you as the wife of Anubis,
help with preparing my body with burial
and guiding me over the spirit river
to eternal life.
Little kitty who’s name was Belle
and is now entombed in a shoe box
and wrapped in my Duke tee shirt
your grave marked by lilies of the valley
and a double delight rose.
Little kitty, keeper of my heart and
Protector of my soul…

British Museum

Summer Tomatoes – A Love Poem

For day 10 of Nanonano at Real Toads. The floor is open for all poems as this is open link day at the Toads.  Unprompted!!!!

copyright kanzensakura

Summer Tomato: A Love Poem
I’m not talking about those
mushy wannabe red globulous things
in plastic trays in the pro-duce section of the store –
I’m talkin’ ’bout tomatoes born
and raised in the heat of the summer sun,
sassy summer tomatoes full of juice,
so tangy and sassy that before
you can stick your fork into a slice
lying innocently upon a plate,
one of those bad boy slices
jumps up and slaps you across the face –
Twice.
No, not talkin’ ‘bout those demure sweet things,
those tame ‘maters with bland flavor –
I am talkin’ ’bout those full fledged
in your face, deep red, full of bite,
impertinent summer tomatoes.
And we all know the best ones comes
from the gardens of your mama,
your grandmama, a neighbor, your own backyard –
all kinds of ‘maters:
Rutgers, Better Boy, Homestead –
unpretentious no apologies ‘maters –
none of those trendy browngreenpurple ‘maters,
but warm from the sun – skin smooth and tight
Sayin’ to you –
Stroke me, hold me, bite me –
Slice me onto the plate,
Summer to-may-toes – The feisty street punk of tomatoes –
no sweet mushy debutante,
no dry flavorless academic,
no all on the outside nothing on the inside
tomato hypocrite…
The Real Summer Tomato:
‘tween my fingers and my thumb,
Watch out belly – here.it.comes.

The Moon in the Water

For Marian’s prompt at Real Toads today – “and you and I” is the prompt.

The Moon in the Water
A hot august night –
We’re sitting on the rocks by the creek.
here in this spot the creek has wandered
and just before plunging over the branches
And rocks and such
the water has pooled into a small pond
about eight feet wide and two feet deep.
Pebbles and rocks and sand
form our own private beach.
Except for the night visitors –
We are alone.
We are silent and so still a raccoon
comes up and drinks and then starts
and waddles away when he sees us.
We quietly laugh and agree
“He’ll be back” said ala Ahhhnold.
The moon flutters on the surface
of the pool – pure white on pure black.
I put my feet into the water and the moon
ripples even more, as it were laughing.
You put your arm around my shoulder
and I reach into my small shoulder bag
and give us another spray of insect repellant.
The cicadas whir and click,
an owl hoots.
A soft flutter of wings as it drifts overhead
and a soft rustling as it lands on a branch.
You and me and the moon in the night sky
and the moon in the water
and the owl in tree
and the night creatures –
Oh yes, and the neighbor’s dog
that followed us down the hill.

stock photo

Faded Landscape

This is for Poets United Midweek Motif – Color.  It will also be posted for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

Faded Landscape
The second day of spring is
a faded black and white photograph.
Shades of grey, black, and white –
No red from the rising sun,
No yellow from the huge forsythia bush at the edge of the woods,
No green from the pines and cedars.
The light was softened, almost blurred.
Snow is falling,
silent and still is the air.
From down by the creek in one of the large oaks
a soft hooting broke the silence.
I stood in the cold and looked
at the trees and the snow that fell.
In the yard,
a Japanese plum tree blooms –
soft and barely pink.

copyright kanzensakura – not a black and white photo

Either love or money?

The Mid-week Motif Prompt over at Poets United this week is “money”. I don’t know if this will fit or not but here is yet another poem about Dorian Grey. I’ve been working on this one since last year.  I am also posting this on dVerse Poets OLN.

Either Love or Money?
I was born wealthy –
Old inherited money, y’know?
But I was bored beyond belief –
so I sold my soul –
But you all know that already.
I was bored with going to the Café Royale
and being gaped at by the pseudo-aesthetes.
I was bored with buying my ties
collars and waistcoats from Liberty
and wearing cobalt blue and
wine coloured velveteen suits from
Krause and Sons on Jermyn Street.
The endless chatter of the wealthy,
The whining and begging of the poor.
When I was 110, I realized
I was bored again. All that money
all that beauty, all the drugs, sex,
And food – I was boredboredbored.
So here I am in 2017
and am even more bored than I ever was.
Do these people not realize they are murdering their home?
That they are living years beyond their means?
That the poor and homeless are still with us
and people still die –
by overdoses, bizarre diseases, in those
warehouses for the aged, by guns,
by automobiles, wars.
And I am still alive.
If asked what I would rather have
either love or money?
To use the parlance of today,
I would say, hell yes. Show me the money.
After all, it has bought me eternity.

Reeve Carney as Dorian Gray in Penny Dreadful

The Circus

Fore Real Toads Camera Flash and for Hedge 55. Sometimes something innocent comes along…

The Circus
they walked into town from the farm
a basket of eggs and pale yellow butter
between them to sell –
they spoke little English but were eager
to see the circus, supposedly from Mother Russia.
not enough money for two tickets
they stood and took turns looking
through the crack –
Such a good time they had!

 

→
Andre Kertesz
Date: 1920

 

 

Ticket to Philadelphia

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads. Welcome back Shay!

Ticket to Philadelphia
The ticket to Philadelphia cost
$43 in 1983 –
It was a one-way ticket.
My friends said I should be safe –
get a round trip ticket.
It was the midnight train
arriving at 6 a.m. in the morning.
You met me at the station
and thoughts of the round trip ticket
melted with colors of dawn
bounced off the cobblestones
finally came to a stop in the gutters.
I fell in love with Philadelphia.
I didn’t need the round trip ticket
So I cashed it in.
I cashed you in a month later.
I still love Philadelphia
But now I live somewhere else.

Real Toads Weekend Mini-challenge

For Kerry at Real Toads.  the prompt is based on the last line of William Blake’s Garden of Love.  http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/10/micro-poetry-binding-with-briars.html  Twelve lines is the limit to this weekend mini=challenge, any form you wish.  To read the poem by Blake: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45950/the-garden-of-love
For Poets United tomorrow.

Garden of Stars
frozen and tangled
blackberry briars encircle
the sunken grave dug in
silence by the light of stars –
nobody knew her – nobody
cared – the lust that rent her
passed quickly – then rage.
off to find another one
he crept on into the night.
soon another will be planted.
nobody knows them,
nobody cares.

public domain image

Real Toads: Strange Fish

This is for Real Toads weekend challenge – a photo by Hedgewitch which she asks us to write to. I am also posting for Poets United Poetry Pantry. Toads:  http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/10/camera-flash.htmlp Poets United link: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2017/10/poetry-pantry-374.html

Strange Fish
He jumped from the Putney bridge in the winter of 1890.
He drowned. Within a few days his body filled with gas
And rose to the top of the water,
Bumping and bobbing its way along,
caught in the current of the Thames.
It went through the city
past pastures, villages –
After a few days it was finally spotted
by a small child who ran to her mum.
Her mum ran to the local bailiff
Who in turn called out the able bodied men
who formed a line on the shore of the river
and dragged him ashore.
Not a pretty picture by this time.
They shook their heads over the
poor young lad come to no good
and wondered if he was pushed,
If he was drunk and fell in,
oa if it was suicide.
They decided on the lesser of the causes
And buried him an unknown drunk in the church yard.
If it had been suicide, he would not have been
buried in the church yard.
As a murder victim he would have to be investigated
by somebody or other.
They put a small stone on his grave
and the date they pulled him from the river.
The local stonemason carved
“The Lord giveth and taketh away”
In his pockets was a washed away picture,
a few shillings and pennies
and a sodden handkerchief
with the initials TLB embroidered upon it.

dVerse Poetics: Metaphor

This is for dVerse Poetics hosted today by Bjorn. He wants us to use metaphors in our writing. I don’t know if I came close. I’m used to writing “direct poetry” – no hidden meanings or agendas. So I wrote about an old lover.
I hope I did okay! I don’t know about obvious metaphors.

The Black Dragon (kokuryūkai)
I was told long ago: Never look into the eyes of a dragon –
His gaze will capture you and you will be lost.
But I looked too long into his whirling eyes.
Brown, liquid and disturbingly male.
His eyes lifted and trapped mine.
There was about him a wildness,
a smell of cold fresh water rushing over rocks.
There was about him a heat, the skin of a dragon
encapsulating an inner eternal fire –
a wisdom of ages, of trees, of endless sky –
a loneliness about him, a dragon curled
about a red ruby heart in the depths of a faraway cave –
he had the strength of a dragon lifting his wings upward
and flying beyond the sun –
And the infinite sadness of cherry blossoms killed by frost.
I could only stand and watch as he flew back to his mountain.

 

 

image from pixabay

The Notes: You can always tell a Japanese dragon from a Chinese or Korean dragon in paintings and tattoos – the Japanese dragon will always have only three toes/claws per appendage making a total of 12. The dragons are given different colors for obvious reasons. Each color has their own powers: Black dragons are children of a thousand-year-old dragon that is black-gold. They are symbols of the North. They are the most solitary of all the dragons and also, fly the highest and sometimes mated with humans. They caused storms by battling in the air. Blue dragons are children of blue-gold dragons that are eight hundred years old. They are purest in blue colors, the sign of the coming spring and the symbol of the East. Yellow dragons are born from yellow-gold dragons who are one thousand years old or older. They appear at ‘the perfect moment’ and at all other times remain hidden. Yellow dragons are also the most revered of the dragons. Yellow dragons also sometimes mated with humans.  White dragons come from white-gold dragons of a thousand years of age. They symbolize the South. White is the Asian color of mourning, and these dragons are a sign of death.