 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Yeah joanie im a two-woman man and you better believe it, baby!! 
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Ok, so what exactly is a whomp?
Is that, like, kicking ass?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
Posted: |
Nov 6, 2018 - 5:09 PM
|
|
|
|
By: |
joan hue
(Member)
|
THE DIVORCE
Our children jarred home,
round eyes bleeding.
Their friend’s parents separated,
their child an uncaught Frisbee.
At dinner, a round oak table
set with ironed blue napkins,
crystal and salad forks,
my wife’s eyes, twin hemorrhages,
dissipate at this gathering.
Our children relax.
No cruel words at this oval.
The dailiness of our silence,
their solace,
our scalpel.
Never worry my children.
My steel love uses china,
not disposable paper plates.
I teach everything gold does stay
and camouflages the TV-my lover-
and guestroom-my domicile.
Incessant dreaming and
romance novels-your mother’s sanctuaries,
and both of you,
our purpose and noise.
At times on our annual vacation
I get so lost. I touch her hand.
“Check the map for where we are.”
She slowly unfolds the map,
leaving her Camelot reverie
where Guinevere and Arthur
always love,
and all their little knights
circle an intact
round table.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Nuffin like cheering us up first thing in the morning huey!! 
.." child an uncaught Frisbee." That was an accurate observation. Nice stuff joan
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: |
Jan 25, 2019 - 11:17 PM
|
|
|
|
By: |
joan hue
(Member)
|
THIS BUTCHERING
My daughter clutched her
dusty, dark literature text,
dutifully studying poems
for her final exam.
Her assignments were
to memorize two poems daily,
answer five questions at
the end of each poem,
and correctly spell
onomatopoeia and assonance.
“I hate it now, mom. You know, poetry I mean.
It’s ruined now, mom, by that teacher.”
I handed her my newly
purchased lottery tickets
to scratch and shut her door.
I wonder how she’ll know
(she who found metaphors
in tricycles, cakes, candles)
words’ Sistine Chapels
or spoken Fifth Symphonies?
How will she know
(she who chanted in
rhyming couplets before
sentence or paragraphs)
the metrical march of language
or the sounds of silver
wings skimming surfaces
of streams, stems and silence?
And how can I return to her
Poetry’s Soul,
its sustaining use
after this butchering,
this well-planned lesson in child abuse?
(Sorry, not a fun limerick.)
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
