Skirt

When she was six,

The girl was enrolled in private school.

They issued a blouse, white,

Socks,

A tee-shirt with a school logo,

And a pleated, plaid skirt.

 

They reissue the socks,

And the blouse, white,

And the tee-shirt with a school logo

Every year.

 

The skirt is made of sterner stuff.

 

When the girl first wore it,

It fell below her knees.

 

Each year the girl grows

And the skirt creeps up,

And up,

And up,

 

And up,

 

Until,

In the way of the world,

Concealment becomes its opposite.

 

There is no equivalent

For school boys.

 

The injustice of this

Has so far

Gone unnoticed.

 

 

 

Mastiff

She walks with quick, little steps,

Arms stiff,

Wooden, as if

Fearful of calamity.

 

Her breasts, however,

Parting the world before her,

They have a life of their own,

And she,

She is walking them,

As she would an unleashed

Mastiff,

Nervously aware

Of the danger they present.

 

 

The Old Ram Rod

I am told,

As I push 70,

That I should show some subtlety,

Some finesse,

Be less obvious,

That it is somehow wrong,

Even unbecoming,

At my age, or any other,

To write of sweet curves

Welcoming thighs,

Glistening lips…

To write of the misdeeds

Of that old, bald-headed rogue,

Who always grins his

You can’t fuck flowers motif.

But,

While that billy still butts,

I’ll give the birds,

And the bees,

And the cigarette trees,

Lovely blossoms waving in the breeze,

And tired old Decency, itself

A bye.

 

I Would Know You

I would know you.

Tho we have never met,

I have dreamed our conjunction.

Only your face I cannot make out,

But, no matter, I would know you.

 

I would know you by your walk,

By the swing of hip and shoulder,

The familiarity of your stride.

 

Would you know me?

Let us say you would not;

You are so much younger.

 

I would watch you write a note,

The same underlining, the same slurs.

I would hold my breath as you read,

As when I see you walk in,

That searching gaze,

 

That sudden smile.

Would you know me?

 

If we should meet and embrace,

Your breath on my ear,

I would kiss your hair, your throat.

 

We would talk of obscure things;

You would laugh, “how alike we are!”

 

Would you know me, then?

 

When we would next embrace,

When we would be face to face,

And if, surprised, we would be mouth to mouth,

 

Would I have the courage, then,

To tell you who I am?

 

 

 

 

 

Models

(after  about hearing advice about how I could finally get with that novel if I found some models to inspire me)

                                         Models

I like to use models for writing;

Tall, fair, with well-defined buttocks.

A Dark Lady will do in a pinch;

I am not prejudiced.

 

(Somehow, I do not think my well-meaning advisors had that in mind)

Pepsodent Smile

Some time ago, I posted “Lambs”, about a beauty parlour for little little girls.  The girl in this piece could be a survivor of that.

 

Little girl, straight from 1955;

Striped summer frock, cardigan,

White shoes, bare legs, and

Elegantly coiffed.

 

Mother to the woman,

She will stand beside her walk-in closet,

And say, “Tah-dah!”

 

Or just maybe,

She is a spy in the house of convention,

Lying in wait with her Pepsodent smile.

 

 

Blustery

You toss your head, your hair back with a flourish;

One of the charms of a blustery day, that.

 

You said you had lost all power for a while;

I doubted it, but you did mean electrical.

 

I walked my beagle up Mount Tolmie;

It was wicked cold, wind whipping the crest.

 

I could not toss my head, or flourish;

The wind mussed me like a lover,

 

A rough lover, with powerful hands;

Fortunately, I was fully dressed.

 

When I came down, I was almost sad,

Altho, I did feel well ministrated.

 

Someday I will essay a sonnet;

How the wind stroked me breathless.

 

I will show it to you when you next flourish

Your hair.  I doubt you will blush, but,

 

You will smile in that way you have,

And I will think of you losing all power.

 

 

 

 

 

Gratitude

I passed you in the mall;

You were pushing a stroller;

You held a small boy by the hand.

 

I caught your eye,

Though I didn’t mean to,

Or, perhaps,

It was the other way round.

 

     So, in an instant,

     All our history passed before me:

     Our casual meeting…

     I needed a place to sit;

     You had an empty chair…

     Our first quiet talk,

     Sorting each other out…

     You are not merely being polite;

     I am not a serial killer…

     The first time we really looked,

     And felt the space between dissolve,

     First kiss, first embrace,

     First clumsy tangling,

     Laughing curses at clothing,

     Our first night, knowing

     It was the first,

     First child,

     And here I am,

     Not caring what comes next,

     As long as it is with you.

 

All this in a moment,

A moment in a busy mall,

A moment like a wildflower

Stumbled across in a thatch of weeds,

And passed,

With only gratitude to mark the moment.

 

 

    

Sidney Wharf

Thieving in mid-flight, the gulls

Rob each other of dangling crab-guts,

Tossed from the long wharf.

 

Lines of yellow chord

Curve into the dark water,

To the baited traps below.

 

The crabbers get no clue,

No sign a crab is feasting down there,

Oblivious to his capture, until

 

He is hauled aloft for a look-see.

The crabber stifles a curse or a sigh…

Another too-small one is tossed back.

 

The gulls still circle, like dogs about a table,

Who wait for a vagrant scrap, dropped

With a secret smile,  by a bored boy.

Rhonda Poem 7: Postlude: Yule

This is the final Rhonda poem.  There is no happy ever after…there is only memory.

 

It is over.

And whatever we have done

Is buried in snow, vanished in drift;

Winter is merciful.

 

By the time the thaw reveals the past,

I will be ready to look upon what remains

Without desire,

Without regret;

 

Memory undefiled by mourning.